


Memoriam

by rowenabyrde



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Department of Mysteries, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 116,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27301426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenabyrde/pseuds/rowenabyrde
Summary: At the Ministry after graduation, Hermione Granger works to untangle her Department's Mysteries. Her research, dealing in the heretofore unknowable forces of magic, memory, and death, has unexpected consequences-some joyful, some troubling, and a few life-changing. HG/SB[Originally posted over at Fanfiction, a few years ago]
Relationships: Sirius Black/Hermione Granger
Comments: 40
Kudos: 186





	1. The Department

Chapter 1

Hermione Granger was at the Ministry of Magic to interview for a job. And, much she hated to admit it, she was very, very nervous. Clutching her folder of extra resumé copies, she accepted her wand back from the wizard at the security desk, bobbed her head in thanks, and hurried towards the lifts.

She’d arrived later than Harry, and she recognized no one around her as the grilles slid shut. Two thin wizards in saffron robes were listening with grim expressions to a low murmur coming from the tip of the nearer wizard’s wand. Behind her, a secretary’s nose and eyes were visible over the top of the heap of parchment rolls he carried. Hermione felt a twinge of sympathy, especially when a memo from the ever-present flock above their heads seemed to recognize the secretary as its intended recipient and zipped down to begin poking him urgently in the side of the head.

“Floor?” asked the burly wizard who had entered the lift last, and it took Hermione a moment to realize he was looking at her.

“Ah, ninth, please.” She was going to be early for her interview. But it would be foolish now to ask for a different floor. And she couldn’t stop in to visit Arthur or Harry anyway–they had no idea she was here. This was an interview that she had kept from almost everybody, partially because she feared she was unlikely to succeed, and partially out of an obscure feeling that she wasn’t supposed to talk about it. They hadn’t said so explicitly. But it felt inherently odd to speak about becoming an Unspeakable.

The lift gradually emptied, and Hermione reached the ninth level alone, the usual cool, female voice intoning, “Level Nine, Department of Mysteries.” Hermione stepped into the corridor, an expanse of shining black stone, and was struck viscerally with the memory of her only other visit to this department. The Death Eaters, the battle, her own wounds. The eerie wonder of the rooms they had passed through, a wonder she had ignored in her determination to work efficiently past her own sickening fear. Setting aside an echo of that fear, Hermione approached the black door to the Department of Mysteries for a second time. Somewhere underneath her nerves, she felt–strangely excited.

She pulled a letter out of the pocket of her robes and peered at it again. Even though she had memorized its brief contents on the afternoon that she received it, about a month ago now. It read:

_Dear Ms. Granger,_

_Your application has been received, and we are prepared to interview you on the afternoon of August 15th. Ask for Grainne Fenshaw._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Colin Fenderburgh_

_Secretary, The Department of Mysteries_

Here went nothing. Hermione raised her hand to the door. Before she could knock, it swung open with a gentle sound, like a sigh. As soon as she stepped into the circular room beyond, the door snapped shut behind her. And then, as they had in more of her dreams than she cared for, the walls began to spin. When they settled, Hermione found herself facing an uncompromising ring of blank black doors.

She had been thinking about this, and she had decided that there was only one logical thing to do. Or, at least, to try first. She cleared her throat. “Grainne Fenshaw, please.”

A door to her left swung open obligingly, with another sigh. Walking through, Hermione found herself in a very dark, wood-paneled corridor. It was lined with doors, each painted a different color. In the middle of each door there was a plain brass plaque. Leaning closer, Hermione realized that these bore names: the plaque closest to her read, _Odolpho Tierney - Time_. The next read, _Ellena Vivaldi_ \- _Love, Eros_. Names, and–could these be sub-departments?

Hermione finally found her goal twenty-some doors down. A deep violet door bore a name plaque reading, _Grainne Fenshaw - Mind, Thought_. She squared her shoulders, and knocked. There was a pause, and then a reedy voice called, “Come in. It’s open.”

Hermione opened the door, and her first impression was of clutter. Her second was that this room was like a cross between a library and a nest. The walls, fairly narrow, were lined with bookshelves. The books on them were piled at such different angles, and so many individual sheets of parchment were pinned up and poking out in rolls, that the neat linears of the shelves could barely be made out. The center of the room was dominated by a wide desk, every inch of which was covered in papers and notebooks, except for a huge, old-fashioned gas lamp at one corner, burning with a magical steadiness.

It was the woman behind the desk, however, to whom Hermione directed her attention. She was small and sinewy, with close-cropped curly gray hair. She was writing furiously in an open book, but she finished her sentence–jabbed a period into the paper–and set down her quill, looking up to fix Hermione with pale eyes.

“Ms. Fenshaw? I hope I’m not interrupting. I’m Hermione Granger, and-”

“I know who you are,” said Fenshaw. She held up one hand, and rummaged, coming up with a wand. She waved it, summoning a straight, wooden chair in the small area in front of her desk. “Sit, make yourself comfortable. I want to finish this paragraph while I’ve still got the thought.”

She said it casually, but Hermione remembered that “Thought” had been on the door plaque, and wondered how serious a process she had actually walked in on. Fenshaw gave no sign, merely beginning to write again. Hermione sat gingerly, and leaned down to tuck her folder under her chair. This unfortunately left her with nothing to do with her hands. She put them in her pockets.

A small movement caught the corner of her eye, and she looked to her right. A black cat was regarding her unblinkingly from where it lay, framed between two books, its tail draped towards the shelf below. It twitched its tail again, and Hermione gave it a faint smile. It seemed unimpressed–but then, cats were rarely impressed.

“That’s Nero,” said Fenshaw. “He hates everybody but me, so don’t try to pet him.” She put down her quill and actually closed her notebook this time, and then she steepled her hands over it. “So tell me, Ms. Granger. Why should I hire you?”

Hermione took a deep breath. “Well, as much as I can without knowing the details of what it is that you do, I think I would be good at it.” Fenshaw had raised a single eyebrow, but Hermione continued. “I’m… good with magic. All kinds, really. I’m good at research. And I’m good at solving problems. And what’s more–I really, truly want to do this. To learn about memory, like I wrote in my application. Memory and muggles. I’ve always been interested in, well, social causes, you see. House elves. Muggles. Muggle-borns, given that I am one myself. If I weren’t interested in memory, I would probably be trying my hand at law, instead of interviewing with you.”

“I see. Why such an interest in memory, Ms. Granger?”

Hermione had deliberately left this out of her application. Written on a page, it had seemed too desperate, and risked being pitiful. In person, she was hoping it was her drive that would come through instead. “My interest in memory is very personal,” she explained. “Ever since I erased my parents’ memories.” Fenshaw’s eyes widened a touch, and Nero slipped down from his perch and hopped up onto the desk, where he turned to watch her. “It was not an accident,” Hermione continued. “I erased–I should stop saying that, as I didn’t Obliviate them. I _replaced_ my parents’ memories, at the beginning of the war, so that they could move to safety, fully believing themselves to be other people. The difficulty is that, when I finally tracked them down in Australia, I couldn’t undo the spell. I’ve been in touch with St. Mungo’s for months, and I spent most of my last year at Hogwarts researching. I don’t think anybody at all knows how to reverse the spell. I knew that was a risk when I cast it, of course. That it would be permanent. And, well, I would do it again. To save them. And at least they seem happy. But–I suppose I am somebody who has trouble giving up. I have to try to get them back. And if I can learn more about how magic works in the mind–well, maybe I can serve the wizarding world in the process.” There was a pause. “I didn’t know to come here on my own, of course. I tried to propose research at St. Mungo’s. When I had bothered them enough, they sent me to you.”

Fenshaw looked thoughtful. “What do you mean, precisely, when you say that you ‘replaced’ their memories?”

“I ended up casting a Rementire spell on them. Obliviating is so blunt and so specific, you see, it just erases things. And a Glamour was too simple–at least the kind that I had the time to create–and too easily undone.”

Fenshaw nodded. “And so you cast a Rementire, and their minds filled in their own details, around the structure you provided. Clever.”

Hermione wished there weren’t a lump in her throat. It still threatened to rise every time she had to talk about her parents, though she hadn’t actually cried about it in several months. “Yes. Well, it seems to have come out well, as far as my spellwork is concerned. The problem is that it’s not an illusion that I can simply turn off again, like a Glamour. Their minds _are_ the minds of–the people they are now. So you see my problem.”

Fenshaw opened her notebook briskly, startling Nero. “I do, and you’re correct in believing that no solution exists. So far.” She gave Hermione a slightly toothy grin. “Can you come in to start on Monday?”

…

Hermione arrived in front of Grimauld Place with a pop. Casting a glance around for unwanted witnesses–they kept the house warded as it had been during the war, more out of paranoid habit than serious lingering danger–she tried to wipe all traces of her day off her face. Joy wasn’t a safe thing to be getting used to. Then she opened the door and walked in.

The entrance hall was dark; it appeared that Kreacher had turned down the lamps again. The elf’s taste verged towards the funereal. Hermione flicked her wand, and the red and gold bulbs hanging from the ceiling filled the hall with a warm glow. She had installed them at the beginning of the summer, originally collaborating with Arthur on an adaptation from a muggle chandelier that he had gotten a bit too enthusiastic about. The result, simplified, was surprisingly elegant.

The Gryffindor color scheme had the advantage of cheering up the dark house, and it appealed to her, Harry, Ron, and Ginny–all the more because it seemed to irritate Kreacher. Hermione liked to think that their relationship with the elf had become one more of teasing than of genuine combat; at any rate, as much as Kreacher was never bubbly in the way Dobby had been, his grumbling these days seemed more fond than anything else. Hermione suspected that this might have to do with a few concessions she had convinced Harry to make on matters like Black family antiques, which Kreacher had been allowed to hoard and curate to his heart’s content in a particular section of the attic. He now lived up there in a kind of nest amongst them, and Hermione was fairly certain that his general compliance about decorating changes had to do with this. That, and the fact that none of them ever really took Kreacher to task anymore for low-level interference like talking to the portraits or keeping the house gloomy while they were all out at work. They knew it made him happy, and keeping Kreacher happy made life at Grimauld Place run smoothly. It also helped assuage Hermione’s guilt over the fact that they hadn’t freed the elf. She had persuaded Harry to have a talk with Kreacher about it over a year ago, and the elf had been horror struck at the thought of leaving the home of the Blacks. He had made such an extra effort after that to take special care of all of them that Hermione had started to feel guilty for having made Harry have the talk in the first place. She now contented herself with being as nice to Kreacher as she could.

“Kreacher, I’m home!” she called. From the look of the coat rack, Hermione was the first one home today. She wandered down the hall, poked her head into the kitchen to confirm that the noises she could hear were Kreacher cooking–the elf gave her a respectful nod but muttered something that sounded like “Mistress Hermione mustn’t try to help cook again, Kreacher doesn’t need any help” into the pot he was stirring–and continued into the library. There, she curled up in her usual armchair and picked up a book she was reading on pensieves.

A few hours later, she heard the front door open, and voices that she recognized as Harry and Ginny. Ginny and Hermione had moved into Grimauld Place after they graduated from Hogwarts at the beginning of the summer. Harry and Ron had decided to go straight into the Ministry as junior Aurors rather than returning to school for a year, and had been living at Grimauld Place together and studying for some extra certifications for the past year to make up for their lack of N.E.W.T.s. Hermione thought it had made a lot of sense for them–for Harry in particular, after the intensely practical training of their final year of the war–but it had left her relatively lonely at Hogwarts. As a result, she had become much closer with Ginny and with Luna Lovegood, and it was nice to get to keep seeing Ginny on a daily basis.

Hermione put down her reading, and tracked the noises down to the kitchen. Harry and Ginny were setting dinner on the table.

“Hermione!” said Ginny immediately, “How was the interview?”

Hermione slid into the chair opposite them and smiled, trying not to look too smug. “They hired me. You’re looking at the Department of Mystery’s newest Unspeakable.”

Harry gave a grin and a “Well deserved, ’Mione,” while Ginny got up to give Hermione a dramatic hug of congratulations. “Partially,” added Harry, “Because the things you work on already are semi-beyond most of our speaking abilities. What do they have you doing?”

Hermione made a face. “I’m pretty sure I can’t tell you. Isn’t that part of the deal?”

“Was worth a try. Ron and I are thinking of getting a bet pool going on who’s going to manage to get any hints out of you, and when. Ron’s theory is that it’ll be when you discover something big enough to hit the Prophet as news.”

“And your theory?”

Harry looked at Ginny, who smirked. “Ginny pointed out that if you were keeping a secret, we’d be lucky to find out about it even years later. Thinking back on the Time Turner, and the Marietta Edgecombe… incident… I think I’m in Ginny’s camp.” He gave Hermione an earnestly innocent smile. “So, you know, you do your thing.”

Hermione laughed. “You’re testing my loyalty to Ron with this bet, but I suppose he’s set himself up for it. Anyway, that’s one of the things I want to clarify with my boss when I start tomorrow. There may be some parts of it I’m allowed to talk about.”

“You know,” pointed out Ginny, “You’ve got a unique opportunity here. At this stage, you could tell us absolutely anything about your job, and we’d believe you. Hunting our old friend the Crumple-Horned Snorkack? Sure. Charming bowtruckles to execute perfectly choreographed dance sequences? Why not. The world needs it, really. Of course, what I really want to know is if you’ll get to work with the brain tank,” she wiggled her fingers like tentacles, “Mostly because I’m positive it would freak Ron out but that he’d feel too manly to say anything about it.”

Hermione tried not to grin. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I actually might get to work with those. No idea yet. But I’ll be sure to drop ominous hints, regardless.” She felt slightly awkward talking about Ron so much, though she couldn’t have said why. “Speaking of Ron, Harry,” she asked, “Do you know what time he’s supposed to get in tomorrow?”

Harry shook his head. “When has Ron been known for planning and punctuality? We can at least be sure that it’ll be tomorrow in time for him to unpack and get settled. We have a departmental meeting Wednesday morning that he’s supposed to be at.”

“Ah. Good. I mean–well, yes, good. I was just wondering whether I’d see him before work tomorrow or not. How do you think… well, I should say, do you think the mission in France went well? Ron seemed… I don’t know. Off. In his last letter.” Hermione tried not to look anxious as she said it.

Harry avoided her eyes. “I, um, I reckon it went sort of normally. Not every investigation can be a dramatic success, after all. And, you know, practice makes perfect.”

Ginny snorted. “Just the motto we want for our law enforcement. Leave it to Ron. If he hadn’t-” she broke off abruptly, and Hermione wondered whether Harry might have kicked her under the table. “Anyway, I suppose we can ask him all about it tomorrow. Hey, Kreacher, I think we’re ready for dinner, if that’s alright with–Merlin, that smells fantastic!”

Kreacher mumbled something inaudible, but he looked immoderately pleased with himself as he directed several hovering bowls onto the table.

The soup was, indeed, fantastic. After a couple of minutes, however, Hermione couldn’t help herself. “What were you going to say before, Ginny, about Ron? With the investigation? If he hadn’t something?” She tried to keep her tone casual.

Ginny turned pink. “Oh, nothing really. I just… Well, I think it’s starting to show that he missed that last year at Hogwarts, is all. It seems to be going fine for Harry, though, so I’m sure that he’s right about it just being practice. Ron’ll polish up.”

Harry had been looking back and forth between the two women as Ginny said it, and now he nodded a bit too enthusiastically. “Really, I’ve had some muckups too; there’s nothing like field experience. And Ron’s had some great cases, too. I’m sure it’ll even out.”

“Oh, me too!” said Hermione, but she wasn’t sure that her bright tone had convinced anybody, because they all sank into a slightly awkward silence after that. Harry was probably right, though. There was no reason to borrow trouble. After all, Ron hadn’t even mentioned a negative side to the investigation in his last letter.

And at any rate, after a whole month, it would be lovely to get to see him. 


	2. Reunions

Chapter 2

As it turned out, Hermione did not see Ron before she left for work the next morning. Now that the war was over, she and Harry had agreed to reopen the Floo network connection to Grimauld place, and so it was through the kitchen fireplace that Harry and Hermione commuted to work.

Harry had first tried to offer Hermione the floo powder, with a cheerful kind of chivalry, but Hermione had waved him on ahead so that she could have a moment alone. She checked her briefcase–Undetectably Extended to contain most of her working library–her wand, her robes. She’d even smoothed and tied up her hair. Alright. Squared shoulders, warrior face. “Bye, Kreacher! Have a good day!” she called, and then she took a pinch of floo powder and was off.

Harry had waited for her, and as they wound their way through the morning crowd toward the elevators, witches and wizards Hermione didn’t know waved at Harry and called out greetings. Harry still seemed bemused by that, as if he didn’t expect people to love him. Which Hermione found profoundly silly.

Harry left her at Magical Law Enforcement, and Hermione was alone again when the lift reached Level Nine. She was more efficient this time, marching into the room of doors with her request ready, and within moments she was knocking on Fenshaw’s door.

“Don’t knock, Granger, just come in.” She hurried to comply. “I’m perfectly capable of locking the door if I don’t want to be disturbed,” continued Fenshaw without looking up from her book, “and I won’t always hear your knock. Ready to begin?”

“Absolutely,” said Hermione.

“Good. And I’ve just finished my paragraph. Let’s go.” Fenshaw stood up from her desk, and, shooing Hermione in front of her, stepped out into the hallway.

“Tour first–as much as you’ll need to be getting on with, anyway–and then we can talk about where you should start. This, as you might imagine, is where the offices are. Yours is at the end, at the moment, but it may get moved closer to mine the next time the offices are reviewed. Knowledge and Truth have an ongoing disagreement about how to organize the offices, so sometimes they all move.” She must have noticed Hermione’s expression, because she added, “Honestly, just learn the color of your door and you’ll be fine.”

She led the way down the hall– _far_ down the hall–and they found themselves before a door painted a pale, dusty lilac. The plaque read, _Hermione Granger - Mind, Memory_. “Are Mind offices always purple?” asked Hermione.

“Hmm, no,” said Fenshaw. “The colors tend to follow a different pattern from the specialty names. You’d have to talk to someone in Knowledge to be sure, but my sense is that the reds and purples often have to do directly with humans, so we have a lot of them in Mind. A couple greens as well, for Otto and Clarin–they look at magical creatures’ minds specifically.”

Hermione nodded, suppressing an urge to start taking notes. She loved color coding.

Her office contained nothing beyond a desk and a very bare bookshelf. Over the desk was draped a long, greyish-black robe and a pair of boots, twin to the ones Fenshaw wore.

“You should put them on before our tour,” Fenshaw said. “They’re special-issue for the department, with a week’s worth of protective charms built in, and a dragonskin underlayer. Costs a fortune, but if there’s a Department that needs it... Well. I’ll wait in the hallway.”

Hermione stuck her briefcase under the desk, and changed quickly. The Unspeakable robe was oddly dense without being heavy, and peculiarly cut. After a quick shrinking charm to bring it to size, it comfortably reached her mid-calves. The skirt had slits down the back and front to allow movement, she discovered, but was layered over itself in such a way that her legs would never be exposed. The sleeves were very narrow for a witch’s robe, and they cinched snugly at the wrists. Most usefully, there were several pockets all down the sides of the robe–Hermione planned to ask Fenshaw if she could Extend them–as well as slots on either wrist for her wand.

She emerged from the office doing her best to look professional and ready, and, with a brusque nod, Fenshaw led the way to the hall of doors. “As you’ve no doubt noticed,” she said, “All you have to do when you have the proper authorization is to ask for what you’re looking for. Let’s start with Time.”

Obligingly, the walls finished their spin with a door directly in front of Fenshaw. There followed a tour through all of what Fenshaw called the “less sensitive” halls of the Department of Mysteries. Hermione recognized many of them: Time, which had once held the time turners and now seemed to hold a wealth in elaborate clocks, as well as a motionless hourglass suspended in the middle of the room; Prophecies, with its endless shelves of dusty orbs; Thought, which held the infamous brain tanks and to which Fenshaw promised they would return soon.

“This, you’ll like,” she said, as she pushed open a door at the side of the Hall of Thought. “Welcome to the Hall of Memory. I expect you’ll be doing most of your work here, but don’t write off insights from working in other Halls. Even I’ve barely scratched the surface of what collaboration in this department can lead to.”

Hermione nodded obediently, but she was barely listening. The room was _filled_ with… memories. Stands across the hall bore wide, empty bowls that Hermione recognized as pensieves, but the center of the hall was dominated by rows and rows of raised pools, all glowing with an unmistakable silvery light. The same light glimmered on ranks of bookshelves, where meticulously labeled bottles weighed down the shelves. Hermione was struck viscerally by a sense that all of those bottles were lives lived, minds that she could step into from–Merlin, maybe from centuries ago? She could almost feel tears prickling at the back of her eyes from the sheer wonder of the thought. She had barely had a feeling like this since she first reached Hogwarts.

This was going to be magical.

...

After a long day acclimatizing herself, Hermione was back at her office feeling satisfied as she had not for months. It was the satisfaction of a mind well-stretched, and she could hardly wait to come back tomorrow and keep _learning_.

It was not until she had changed back into her normal robes–which felt very flimsy now–and picked up her briefcase to go home that she remembered what else was happening today. Ron was coming home.

It had been almost a month now since she had seen him, and she wished her anticipation wasn’t laced with nerves. She was worried over how his mission had gone, she figured, because that would be what was worrying him. And why on earth hadn’t he talked to her about it? She might have been able to help…

And here her excitement over this magical department was already beginning to fade in the face of mundane real life. She told herself not to be silly–there was nothing to be gained from worrying about Ron’s arrival. This was her first day, and she should let herself bask in this for as long as she could. There was just so much buzzing through her head–she paused in the middle of opening her office door, and pulled out her notebook to jot down a thought: _What metal are pensieves made of?_ She circled it, and kept the notebook out in case she thought of anything else.

The hallway was full of Unspeakables on their way out for the day. Hermione smiled and waved at a few that she had met on her tour, but she felt a bit too shy to do much else, and so she hurried towards the hall of doors. She had almost reached the end of the hall when a flash of yellow moved in her peripheral vision in a very particular way. She stopped short, turned, and broke out into a huge smile.

“ _Luna?”_

The fluffy-haired girl looked up and, in her usual confounding fashion, smiled at Hermione quite serenely. “Hello, Hermione. Do you work here too now?”

“I-” Hermione gaped. “I, yes, of course I do. You didn’t tell me you were working here! You sly, dizzy thing!” Luna was grinning now, used to this from Hermione. “You–I just… Merlin, Luna. It’s so good to see you.” Luna had already stepped forward, and Hermione seized her in a fierce hug.

“Are you here working on your parents?” Luna asked, and Hermione almost flinched, but then nodded. Luna had an odd way of skipping several steps ahead in a conversation, but Hermione had come to love the sincere kinds of insight that prompted it.

“I’m working on Memory, hopefully to help them. I thought you were applying to those fellowships to study magical creatures–are they what you’re doing here?”

Luna shook her head. “Not really, though I do get to work with a few. I started with thestrals, you see, and I realized partway through the summer that it wasn’t really them that I was interested in. It was how they connected me to my mother. Which” she blinked gently at Hermione, “I’m sure you can understand.”

“Very much so,” said Hermione. She had taken Luna’s arm, and they continued down the hall together. “What specialty are you working on here, then? Magical sight? How _does_ thestrals’ invisibility work?”

“They’re not invisible,” said Luna, with great certainty, “they’re just too hard to see until you’re ready. Anyway, that’s not what I’m working on. Did I not say? I’m working in the Hall of Death.”

...

It was 9:00 that night, and Hermione had been waiting for Ron to get home for hours. He had sent an owl earlier in the evening letting them all know that he’d be late.

Perhaps sensing Hermione’s growing tension, Harry and Ginny had said goodnight a little while ago and gone up to bed. Hermione was waiting alone in the library, trying to focus on her pensieves book and drumming her foot against the leg of her chair while she strained to hear some sound from the front door.

It came, finally, far more faintly than Hermione had expected. The front door creaked open and then closed. It sounded, as footsteps came down the hallway, like Ron was trying to be quiet. Either that, or he was very tired.

When he appeared in the doorway, though, he broke into a hearty grin at the sight of her. “Hello, ‘Mione,” he said softly. She put down her book and was across to the room to him in a moment, capturing him in a hug. His arms came around her and they stood like that for a few moments. Hermione had missed the feeling of this, Ron’s solidity and warmth. “Your hair smells nice,” he murmured, not loosening his grip, and she chuckled into his sweater.

“You always say that.”

“ ’S cause it’s true.” He leaned down, and she felt his lips against her forehead. She pulled away and, taking his hand, led him over to the couch. He obligingly sat down and she tucked herself in beside him, with his arm around her shoulders.

“How was France?” she didn’t look at him as she asked it; he was sometimes more open with her when they could talk side by side rather than face to face. It also, she realized as the moment of silence stretched out, made it very difficult to gauge his expression without turning and seeming more confrontational.

“It was… mixed,” he finally said. “Not great, but I learned a lot. I’m having a talk about it with my boss tomorrow. It was just... frustrating.” He paused, and the silence lingered again. He started playing with her hair with one of his hands, looping a curl around his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shifting closer and leaning her head on his chest.

“Yeah.” He rested his chin on her head, but then seemed to remember something, lifting his head suddenly. “Hey, what about you? How did your job interview go?”

She looked up at him and smiled. “It went well. I’m officially working in the Department of Mysteries.”

“Congratulations!” He hugged her, and she tried to tell herself that it wasn’t awkward to be celebrating her success in the shadow of what might have been his failure. At any rate, it was sweet of him to want to be happy for her.

She returned his hug. After a moment, he pulled back and, tilting her chin up with one hand, moved in to kiss her. It was a soft kiss, and sweet, and she smiled into it. He moved to her cheek and then up to her temple, kissing as he went. “Want to go up to bed?” he asked softly, when he reached her ear. That certainly hadn’t taken very long.

She kissed him back and, taking his hand, led the way upstairs.

His kisses got more awkward and more enthusiastic when they reached their room, and he was taking her shirt off as they staggered over to the bed. Hermione did her best to be warm and inviting, and it wasn’t long before they were fumbling the last of each other’s clothes off.

It also wasn’t long before Ron was gasping to a trembling halt on top of her, his breath hot on her neck as he planted a sloppy kiss under her ear. “’Mione, that was amazing. Did you… are you...”

“Mmhm, I’m good,” she reassured him, kissing the side of his head. He smiled, and nuzzled into her shoulder. “I’m just going to clean up a little,” she added, and extricated herself from him and the bed.

In the bathroom, she stood in front of the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. Her lips were pink from Ron’s kisses, and her eyes, staring back at her, were wide in her pale face. Wide and brown and blank.

It was good to have Ron back, she told herself.


	3. The Hall of Death

Chapter 3

Hermione returned from work the next day to find Ron and Harry having an argument. Or rather, trying not to have an argument. Hermione, emerging from the fireplace, seemed to have stepped right into the middle of it. Harry was saying, “I didn’t _say_ that you had-” and Ron was saying loudly over him, “I didn’t SAY that you HAD, I just-” when they both fell suddenly silent at the sight of Hermione. Their twin expressions were a look she was familiar with.

She put down her briefcase on the kitchen table, sat down, and folded her arms. “All right, I know I’m not going to like it, but you’re going to fill me in anyway.” She looked from one of them to the other. “Ron?”

Harry seemed happy for a way out, and he sat down quickly. Ron, if anything, looked a little sullen at her tone, and he took a couple steps toward the counter, as if to gain some distance, before turning to face them. “I talked with my boss today, and they’re really not happy about the Paris mission. I mucked it up, Hermione, and not in a chance kind of way. I mis-identified evidence, and somebody was injured before we course-corrected and caught the right bloke. I’m…” he paused, and wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m thinking about resigning. This isn’t the first time I’ve messed up, only the worst. And I’m sure George and Lee could use some help running the shop, they always seem… busy.” He finished a bit lamely, and stood looking fixedly at the floor in front of him.

Hermione was still searching for words when Harry piped in. “Ron hasn’t mentioned what we were talking about, though. Sure, he screwed up. It happens.” Ron looked up, almost angrily, and Harry glared at him and continued, “It happens to _everybody_ at least some of the time. The trouble is that a lot of Ron’s mistakes, for whatever reason, seem to be coming down to holes in his education from missing seventh year. I have a hunch that it hasn’t happened to me because I’ve been specializing more in hands-on fieldwork–lots of duels and spellwork, in other words–rather than the investigation work that Ron’s been shifting into. Ron prefers to bully himself and assume that it’s because he’s naturally bad at it.”

Ron shook his head, at this point standing with his arms folded and a mulish expression.

“Anyway, the main point,” Harry continued, “Is that Ron’s supervisor thinks Ron needs more _training_ , not that Ron should quit. He’s suggested a program in Paris that specializes in investigative magic–the closest one in the world, but also apparently one of the best. Ron doesn’t want to go.”

Ron opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Finally, he said quietly, “I don’t think I should go. I’m bad enough that they need me to do _remedial training_ in order to work as a Junior Auror. That’s not normal. And anyway, I have no idea how I’d pay for it, so it’s kind of a moot point.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’ve already said it, Ron, and I’ll say it again–if you need to do this, I will loan you the money. George would probably want to help. You could pay us back in a few years. Think about it, mate. You’ve got a mind for strategy, and you’re a hell of a useful Auror when you hit your stride.” He looked between Ron and Hermione, and then stood up. “And on that note, I will let you think for a bit. There’s dinner on the stove, by the way, Hermione. Night, everyone.”

As the door swung shut behind Harry, Hermione turned to look at Ron. He was looking back at her from where he was leaning, his sullen expression tempered with a kind of nervousness. She pulled out the chair beside her and nodded for him to come sit down. He sat.

“Ron,” she said, “do you like being an Auror? Not when you make mistakes, but other times. When it’s going the way it’s supposed to.”

“I… yes.” He looked sad now.

“Why do you like it?”

He was silent for a moment. “Because it’s satisfying,” he said finally. “That sounds lame, I guess. I do mean all high ideas like helping people and fighting back evil in the world is ‘satisfying,’ and I think that’s what gets Harry about it. But to be honest, to me it’s like playing a game. Or, when it goes well, it’s like winning a game. It’s that feeling of–I did everything I should do, and everything that I possibly could. Like I put all the pieces out right and beat the losers who tried to pull one over on us. Except,” he was examining a knot on the table now and running his finger around it, not looking at Hermione, “that’s a fat load of use when I end up being the loser most of the time.”

Hermione caught his hand, and squeezed it. “Ron, look at me.” He did, and his eyes were open and a little bit pleading. “Ron,” she said gently, “I think you should do the investigative magic course. The way you talk about it–that ‘satisfaction’ is what people dream about in a job. You should let yourself chase that. And for what it’s worth,” she lifted his hand and kissed it gently, “I really think you’re going to be good at it. They wouldn’t have recommended it if they didn’t think you were worth keeping–the Ministry fires people all the time. And your problem-solving–you know, it’s one of the things I love about you. You can sometimes be really brilliant.” She grinned at him.

He smirked back. “Always the tone of surprise.” He rubbed her hand with his thumb for a moment, and his eyes grew distant. “I could do it, I guess. It’s not as if I’m really excited about the idea of working in George’s store. I… the course would be a year, more or less. Like a school year. What would we do? You and me, I mean?” His eyes were anxious again.

It was Hermione’s turn to look at the table. This hadn’t occurred to her as a problem. “I suppose we’d just be long-distance again,” she said slowly, “Like when I was at Hogwarts. Honestly, also not that different from this long mission to France. Right? Though maybe we could try to visit more.”

Ron nodded. “Definitely visit more. I… I mean, yeah, that makes the most sense. I just don’t want you to be unhappy, ‘Mione.”

“I’ll be happy if you do this for you, Ron,” she said, and she meant it. She really didn’t feel daunted by the thought of him going away. It would bring him clarity, and practice. And she could–well, she could focus on her work. That, after all, was what she found… satisfying.

...

“So, what’s it like?” asked Hermione. “Working in the Hall of Death, I mean.” She and Luna were having lunch in Luna’s office, and Hermione had been reading up on the halls of Memory and Thought enough that she was starting to get curious again about the rest of the department. The Hall of Death, she also had to admit, had a special fascination, if a fearful one. She had never actually seen it, as Fenshaw had deemed it too “sensitive” for their casual tour.

“It’s curious,” Luna said. “Not as creepy as people might assume. I’m fascinated by the archway–has Harry ever described it to you?” Hermione tilted her head back and forth. He’d mentioned it, of course, but naturally didn’t like to talk about it. “Well, the first thing I noticed was that the Veil is like a thestral, except with sound. You can’t hear it, you see, until you’re ready.” She took a bite of her sandwich, as if she had explained herself clearly and was done.

“You mean until you’ve seen somebody die, like with thestrals?” asked Hermione.

“Yes. Although I wonder maybe whether you have to _hear_ somebody die, or if that’s taking the thestral connection too far. I should remember to ask about that later today. Anyway, when you have, you hear through to the other side. Whispers, mostly. I’ve never heard them actually say anything, but I haven’t given up hope yet.”

“Them?” asked Hermione, feeling like this conversation was becoming surreal even for her standards.

Luna shrugged. “The dead, I assume. The Veil is a Veil between our world and death. Or at least, that’s how it worked when Sirius Black went through it. Did you know that he’s the only person who’s done that in the past century? The department lets everyone who’s new on Death work with it for their first weeks, but not touching the Veil itself or going through it is one of the undebatable rules.”

“Work with it?” asked Hermione. “What do you do, then?”

“Write observations, mostly,” said Luna, “though they encourage us to think of experiments as well. My boss, Murdoch, was telling me that when he was new he spent his weeks creating all the kinds of lights he could think of to shine at it and even send through it. He was able to make out some mist, apparently, but otherwise just dark. I think that’s a little sad. I never thought death would be all dark. I think maybe he just couldn’t see very far in.”

“I… can’t disagree with you on that one,” said Hermione. “It’s astonishing that they just let you, sort of–well, play with it. Have you been doing anything to it, or just observing?”

At this, Luna flushed. “Nothing that’s worked. I’d like to listen to the whispers better, but I’m not sure how to. I did try some amplification charms, but they didn’t seem to do anything. It’s like the whispers stay just below hearing no matter how loud they should be getting from the spell.”

Hermione frowned. “That’s interesting. That… sounds like they might not be real sounds. Like maybe you’re hearing them, but they’re not actually physically there. Maybe they’re in your head instead. Does that make sense?”

Luna blinked. “How can a sound be physically there?”

Hermione sighed. “I’ll lend you my library on muggle science. It’s only useful up to a certain point, because magic tends to break all the rules, but I like the way it helps me think. Real sounds–physical sounds–are vibrations that move through the air that our ears are able to interpret. That’s why you can feel your body vibrating at a really loud concert.”

Luna nodded eagerly. “And why you can feel nargles going past when you can’t see them! That makes a lot of sense.”

Hermione stood up. “I’ll get my briefcase, I’ve got some of them with me. If you’re just trying out experiments, it can’t be a bad place to check for ideas.”

...

Four hours later, Hermione checked her watch to find that she and Luna had whiled the afternoon away reading and taking notes. She didn’t feel too guilty–Fenshaw mostly just let Hermione report her progress each morning and then go off to work on whatever seemed most urgent to her. Hermione liked the free rein–it let her stretch her research muscles like she rarely had, and the speed was exhilarating.

Luna, Hermione noticed after a while, had stopped reading and was sitting still, staring off into the distance. She looked a little troubled, and she finally turned to Hermione. “Hermione, are Unforgivable Curses still Unforgivable if you don’t perform them on a human?”

Hermione frowned. “I think the answer is ‘sometimes.’ Many magical creatures now have legal protections for that sort of thing, though I’m not sure it would get you straight to Azkaban the way that cursing a human would. Why do you ask?”

Luna blinked. “Oh, I’m not going to curse anybody, even if they aren’t human. I was just thinking–well, it’s kind of a silly idea. But reading some of these experiments in–chemistry? That’s what this is, with the little energy bits?” She held up a diagram of an atom in one of the books. Hermione wasn’t quite sure how this connected to anything, but she nodded.

“And it got me thinking about power–muggles talk about forces, and charges. And I was thinking, if you think about the Veil as a kind of force towards death–is it really pulling towards itself with some kind of power? Or is it more like a hole that the power around it is trying to fill? Do you see what I mean?”

“Um… maybe. Not really,” Hermione admitted. She’d been reading about neurons and the elasticity of human brain constructions for hours–not directly applicable to wizard brains, she’d discovered, but fascinating–and abstract “forces” were a little far afield from that.

Luna snapped her book shut and stood up. “Let me show you what I mean,” she said. “Come with me?”

Hermione was surprised. “To the Hall of Death? Am I allowed in there?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Luna, “if you’re helping me with my research and you don’t break the rules. The non-debatable rules, apart from not touching or entering the Veil, are not to leave anything unmonitored on the platform near it, and not to go into any of the chambers off the main Hall without knocking.”

“I think I can manage that,” said Hermione, feeling excitement building. “Shall we?”

The Veil, Hermione felt as she regarded it for the first time, was uniquely sinister. She normally had a certain fondness for the old, ruined, and mysterious. But there was a wrongness to the way that the tattered black cloth in the archway fluttered with the barest hint of movement, as if someone walking on the other side had just brushed it in passing. Without any breeze in the room, it made the archway seem almost alive. Or like it hid something living, at the very least, just beyond its slowly rippling surface.

“I’m assuming people have tried blowing the curtain further back? The Veil, I mean?” Hermione asked in a hushed voice. It felt wrong to speak loudly in this Hall.

Luna nodded, staring at the Veil. She seemed as transfixed as Hermione. “They’ve tried all kinds of winds. Even throwing objects through to try and move it. It moves when the objects go in, but you never see past it, apparently. And the winds don’t move it at all.”

“Interesting,” said Hermione, softly. “It’s just that you get the feeling, looking at it, that there’s someone just there. Do you see what I mean?”

Luna cocked her head. “Hm? I don’t, really. To me it seems like there should be a huge, empty space beyond it. Like the edge of a cliff. Except that all the people do sound close by.”

Hermione looked at her. “I can’t hear them. I’ve seen people die–shouldn’t I be able to?”

Luna shrugged. “That’s why I said that it’s more that you have to be ready to hear them. I’m not sure it’s exactly like a thestral.” After a moment, she added, “I think that with the Veil you probably have to _want_ to hear them. That makes sense from what I’ve read, and it’s the only difference I can think of between you, and me and Harry.”

Hermione nodded. “That could make sense. The cliff thing you said–is that what you meant about the Veil being some kind of hole?”

“Yes,” said Luna, walking a few steps down to stand on the floor in front of the archway’s dais. “It’s not a hole like a hole that’s just there. It’s like a hole that wants to be filled, don’t you think? That’s why you can never quite hear the whispers, it wants you to come closer to reach them.”

Goosebumps rose on Hermione’s arms. “That… makes a lot of sense. Luna, I have to say–I really don’t like this place.” She looked at the Veil, suspended in its perpetual motion. “You’re talking about it as if it’s alive, if it can want things.”

Luna shook her head. “It’s definitely not alive. I think that might be part of the problem. I just… I’m not sure this will work. It might be stupid, but…” she took a deep breath. “Ready?” she asked, looking at Hermione.

Hermione wasn’t quite sure what Luna was up to, and she had a bad feeling about this. But, after all, wizards and witches had apparently been experimenting on this archway for centuries. And no scientist, muggle or wizard, ever got anywhere without testing things out.

“Go ahead,” she said. “This should be interesting.” She sat down on the nearest stone bleacher.

Taking a step back from the platform, Luna raised her wand. Her face had emptied of all emotion, and with a chill intensity, she stared at the Veil and spoke two words: “ _Avada kedavra_.”

There was a flash of green light, and then everything went black.


	4. Travelers Return

Chapter 4

Hermione couldn’t hear anything, not even herself coughing. Everything hurt, and she was lying on the ground. Raising a hand to her mouth, she saw that she seemed to be covered in dust, and shards of–stone? What had Luna _done_? She tried to raise herself onto an elbow and gave up quickly at a sudden pain in her abdomen. Her best guess was that she had broken a rib. Her dragonhide robe had likely protected her from anything sharp, at least.

She tried saying something: “Hello?” She couldn’t hear a thing, and she worried that her ears had been damaged. Turning her head to the side, she could tell that she was still in the Hall of Death–the already dim room was filled with a cloud of dust, but the stone tiers were unmistakable. She seemed to have been thrown back against a mid-level tier, and she could see a few rows down through the haze. Bad idea, as the distance seemed to yawn out in front of her, and she felt nauseatingly dizzy. She closed her eyes a moment, letting the world steady.

When she opened them, she could make out a figure. There was a woman lying on the steps below Hermione, and, unless she was very much mistaken, that woman was not Luna. Long, dark hair was strewn around her head, and she was wearing what looked like a pale dress. What in Merlin’s name?

Just then, a hand grasped Hermione by the arm, and she almost yelped. She turned her head too quickly, and a stranger’s face above an Unspeakable’s robe swam into view. Whoever he was, he looked angry, and he was saying something to her. Hermione shook her head, and then wished she hadn’t. He frowned, and made several gestures, finally seeming to realize what was happening and pointing to his ears several times. Hermione gave a weak nod. He held up a finger, apparently telling her to wait, and then disappeared.

It could have been a moment or several minutes before two faces leaned over her again. One of them was Fenshaw. She pointed at her ear, apparently verifying that Hermione couldn’t hear.

“Yes,” said Hermione, unsure if the sound had come out successfully, but not wanting to move her head more. “I can’t hear a thing. Luna’s here too, she might be hurt.”

Fenshaw looked concerned, and she said something to the other Unspeakable. He shrugged, and Fenshaw drew her wand and pointed it at Hermione. There was a flash of red, and everything went dark again.

...

When Hermione awoke this time, she was lying in a bed between pristine sheets in what appeared to be a hospital gown, and she could hear. Perfectly normally, thank God. Her head still ached a bit, but the dizziness was gone when she sat up. She looked down and felt around–there didn’t seem to even be any bandages, and if she had broken a rib, there was no way to tell. Magic still amazed her sometimes.

Perhaps prompted by her movement, someone cleared their throat, and the curtain around her bed was drawn back. Fenshaw looked down at her with a wry expression. “Welcome back, Granger. As you’ve probably gathered, we’re at St. Mungo’s. You’ve been out for two days while they repaired your eardrums and healed your ribs. The Department, needless to say, has been somewhat concerned in the meantime. Would you care to shed some light on how it was that you and Lovegood managed to destroy the oldest standing architecture in the Ministry of Magic? That Veil and archway have been in the Department of Mysteries for over three centuries.” Far from sounding angry, she looked almost appreciative as spoke.

Hermione blinked, processing this. “Luna _destroyed_ the Veil? Merlin, I had no idea that could happen. She–she cast the Killing Curse at it. She had some idea about filling the absence of the Veil, or something like that. I didn’t quite understand what she meant.”

“Interesting,” said Fenshaw. “Interesting mostly because that makes no sense. The Veil was an absence of life, if anything, not of death. We will have to ask Lovegood more about this when she wakes up.”

“Is Luna alright?”

“She will be. She was closer to the blast than you were, and cut up by the shards of the archway, but she’s healing up nicely. More than can necessarily be said for–well, I’m getting ahead of myself. Are you feeling up to a little field trip? I’ve been forbidden by the mediwitch to take you off the premises for now, but there’s something down the hallway that I think you’ll want to see.”

Hermione was already sitting up. “I think I should be fine for that.” She winced a little as she stood up, and determined to ignore that twinge. She hoped Fenshaw had noticed nothing.

“What floor are we on?” Hermione asked, as they stepped into the hallway.

“Mm.” Fenshaw looked sideways at Hermione. “Fourth floor for Spell Damage, technically, though logically you should probably be down in Artefact Accidents. Between us, though, the Department has its own ward up here. Only a few of the St. Mungo’s staff can access it, and many don’t know about it. We have a special setup because of our work. Can’t have an Unspeakable in with the other patients, where they might talk in their sleep or some such.”

Hermione supposed that made sense. They had progressed down the hall, and Fenshaw stopped in front of a glass door with a gauzy curtain, two down from Hermione’s room.

“I’m not sure how much you saw in the Hall of Death before I stunned you so that we could move you, Granger. But you and Lovegood weren’t the only victims of the… event… in the room when we arrived.”

Hermione nodded eagerly. “There was a woman, wasn’t there? I saw her on the ground, and she didn’t look like Luna. Where did she come from?”

“We didn’t know at first, but she isn’t the only one. And one of the other two leaves us very little doubt. We believe they came from beyond the Veil. The woman you saw, and two men.” Fenshaw pulled back the curtain as she said it, and revealed three beds in a neat row in the room beyond, with an apparently sleeping figure in each. “You see,” she explained, “one of the men who appeared was-”

Hermione finished her sentence for her, feeling the blood rush from her face: “Sirius Black.”

…

Hermione could barely contain herself as she paced up and down the hallway, her aching ribs forgotten in a burst of energy. _Sirius Black was alive_. She had seen him with her own eyes. And any minute now, they would let her speak with him. The Department had made an educated guess, apparently, that Hermione was likely to know Sirius from her work with Harry before and during the war. Or at least, that was how Hermione assumed they knew. And so they had decided to leave Sirius stunned until she had woken up, so that a familiar face could be present to reassure him. The stunning spell, as far as Fenshaw had been able to tell Hermione, was likely the same one Bellatrix had used to send Sirius through the Veil all those years ago.

Merlin. Hermione would barely know where to start. Sirius had looked exhausted, unconscious on the hospital bed, but apart from that he didn’t appear any different from how she remembered him in her fifth year. If anything, he had seemed younger, but she thought that that was because all adults had begun to seem much less unimpeachably ancient to her as she left adolescence behind. She had never thought of Sirius Black as a particularly vulnerable person–in her experience, he had been more of a force of nature, to put it positively. But the man lying on the bed had been almost fragile. Human. Her heart ached at the things she knew she was going to have to tell him.

A door slid open down the hall, and a mediwitch that Hermione didn’t know stepped out. They had transferred Sirius to his own room at the news that he was to be woken up. The witch beckoned to Hermione. “He’s ready now, miss. You can go in.”

With a sense almost of dread, Hermione took the final few steps down the hallway, and stood in the doorway.

Sirius Black was standing beside his hospital bed, wearing a hospital robe that seemed extremely out of place on him. He looked distinctly wary. When he saw Hermione, though, a look of mild relief flashed across his features, followed quickly by confusion. “I– _Hermione?_ ”

Hermione had launched across the room already, and, without quite planning it, she found herself hugging him fiercely. She was a little ashamed to feel tears running down her cheeks, as absurd as all of this was. She was hugging Harry Potter’s godfather, back from the dead, and they were both wearing delicately patterned floral hospital robes. “Sirius,” she sniffled into his shoulder, “it’s good to see you.”

“Hey,” he said, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder as he hugged her back, “What’s wrong? Is Harry alright?”

“Harry’s fine,” she said quickly, pulling back so that she could speak to him properly. “But… I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

Sirius was looking at her with growing alarm. “Hermione, you look–how long have I been out? What the hell is going on?”

She took a deep breath. “Sirius, you’ve been gone for three and a half years. You might want to sit down for this.”

He was staring at her like she’d just slapped him, and he stayed standing.

“Alright,” she said. The fact that her face was still streaky with tears was not helping this at all. She cleared her throat. “I… I hardly know where to start. The war is over, Sirius. It’s been over for over a year, and Voldemort is dead. So is Bellatrix, and other Death Eaters. But there were... losses.”

Sirius looked pale, and his eyes had begun to burn with some of the intensity she remembered. “Tell me,” he bit out. “Everything.”

Hermione nodded, the tears coming again. It had been so long since she’d had to talk about any of this. As clearly and clinically as she could, she said, “The first ones to go were Amelia Bones and Emmeline Vance, the summer just after you–after we thought you had died. The next… the next death on our side wasn’t until the next June. When Snape killed Dumbledore.”

Sirius sat down heavily, and hid his face in his hands at this. “Go on,” he said, when Hermione stopped, unsure.

“When Snape killed Dumbledore,” she continued. “This was before we knew that Dumbledore had asked him to, and that Snape was a spy for our side all along. Dumbledore had been cursed by a horcrux and was dying already… Merlin, I’ve got a lot to explain–a horcrux is-”

“Hermione,” Sirius interrupted, his face still in his hands. “The deaths. The rest can wait. Tell me.” His voice was harsh.

“Right. Sorry,” she said, and wiped her face with her sleeve. Damn her quavering voice. “At the end of the summer we lost Moody. We also lost some Order that I didn’t know as well along the way–Charity Burbage, I think. In the spring, we lost Ted Tonks, and later Dobby. And then in May, we had the Battle of Hogwarts.”

Sirius had kept his head in his hands, but his voice was steady now as he said, very quietly, “Go on.”

“We lost over fifty people,” Hermione said, almost in a whisper. “Snape. Fred. Tonks. And Remus. I’m so sorry, Sirius.”

Sirius’s hands had twitched convulsively at the last name, but he looked up at Hermione now, and only his eyes burned. His face was a calm, stiff mask. “Thank you for telling me, Hermione,” he said, softly.

“You’re welcome, Sirius,” she managed. The way he was looking through her was almost worse, she thought, than if he had broken down at the news.

After a moment of silence, while Sirius stared blankly and Hermione wondered what on earth she could say, Sirius seemed to shake himself out of it. “When–when can I see Harry?” he asked. A hint of raw emotion had bled through as he said the name, and he looked down, hiding his eyes. The pretense of calm was back when he looked up again, but Hermione had seen the mask slip.

“I-I think soon. They want to keep you here for another day, so St. Mungo’s can check you over more extensively now that you’re awake. The Unspeakables need to ask you questions, too.”

“I see. In that case–if you don’t mind, Hermione, I think I’d like to be alone.” He had shifted his gaze to the wall behind her as he said it, and Hermione got the sense that he was just barely holding his composure together.

“Of course,” she breathed. “Anything you need. I’ll–I’ll see you tomorrow, Sirius. I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Thank you, Hermione.” The smile he gave her might have been the bitterest she had ever seen.

...

Hermione opened the front door of Grimauld Place to the cozy sound of more voices than usual, and the smell of dinner wafting down the hallway. A small blonde girl was crouched on the stairway and gazed at Hermione as she walked in.

“Hello, Victoire,” Hermione said, smiling wearily at the child.

Victoire giggled and sat down, waving both hands at Hermione. How old was she now–one? Two? Children always seemed to be older than you thought they were. She wasn’t sure Victoire should be toddling around potential Black heirlooms, so she picked her up and carried her down the narrow steps to the kitchen. Not necessarily the best idea, she realized as she got to the door, with the lingering tenderness of her ribs and abdomen.

She wasn’t left holding Victoire long, however, as Ginny cried “Hermione!” when she saw her in the doorway and was instantly at her side, taking the baby when Hermione proffered her.

“Hello, Ginny,” said Hermione. “And hello, everyone else,” she added, smiling in reassurance at the row of anxious faces looking at her. Harry, Bill, and Fleur were seated around the dinner table, and Ron had leapt to his feet and come over to hover anxiously next to Hermione and Ginny.

“Hermione, are you alright? What’s going on?” he asked. “We got an owl from the Ministry saying you’d be ‘detained’ for a few days, and we were worried because it wasn’t you that had sent it.”

Hermione knew she was forbidden to reveal any details related to the Department, so she temporized. “I’m… afraid I can’t really say what’s going on, but you definitely shouldn’t worry. I’m back now, if a little bit bruised, and I’m not anticipating being gone again any time soon.”

Ron opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking as if he wanted to object but knew very well that he couldn’t. “Bruised?” he managed, finally.

“Mm, more like sore, though I do have one or two actual bruises still. I think it’s fine to say that I was a little bit injured but I’m all healed up now. And it wasn’t serious, in any case.” Not much of a white lie. Practically true, really–with magical medicine, she hadn’t been in any real danger, not once she made it through the event itself without any mortal injuries.

Ron looked unconvinced. “Well, I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “Sit down, I’ll get you some food.”

Hermione sat. Bill and Fleur were heading overseas in a few weeks to work on an extended job for Gringotts that would take them to Greece until the spring. They were talking traveling and the logistics of living abroad with Ron, who seemed to at this point to be fairly settled on doing the program in France. He hadn’t told Hermione this directly yet, but that was probably because she’d been gone for two days. She knew he’d had to make his decision quickly, as the program began on Monday. Merlin, they’d only have two days until he had to leave. She must be more exhausted from her ordeal at St. Mungo’s than she’d realized, as she couldn’t muster much of a sense of urgency at the thought.

“I vill geeve you zair address,” Fleur was saying to Ron, “and zey vill be more zen ‘appy for you to stay with zem during your program, truly. My old room ‘az been empty for years, and Gabrielle, she eez usually only zair when she ‘az breaks from Beauxbatons. You vill give my mozer someone to take care of, she vill love eet.”

Ron had turned pink at the mention of Fleur’s mother, who was very beautiful, and looked like he was about to protest, but Fleur continued relentlessly: “No, I won’t ‘eer of eet, I ‘ave already sent zem an owl and I am _sure_ zey vill agree. It vill be _vonderful_.”

“Well, thanks very much,” said Ron, his ears at this point a vibrant pink. “I really appreciate it.”

Hermione smiled tiredly. It was nice that Ron would have a place to stay. She felt ready to fall asleep face-first in Kreacher’s chicken.

Ginny, it appeared, had noticed. “Hermione is doing a great job of pretending that she’s not dozing as we speak, but, unless anyone objects, I’m going to help her up to bed.” She had also, it would seem, noticed Hermione’s slightly limping walk earlier.

Ron looked slightly stricken, probably because he hadn’t been the one to offer, but he and everyone else murmured good nights to Hermione. Harry cast her a particularly piercing look as she made her way out of the kitchen, leaning on Ginny’s arm. He could probably tell from her face that something was up, though she thought she’d been doing a decent job of hiding it.

This illusion was spoiled for her when they reached the hallway and Ginny said, “Have you been crying, Hermione? Are you sure you’re alright?”

Hermione squeezed her arm. “Thanks for noticing, but really, I’m fine. Just a little sore. I… I really wish I could talk to you about this. I, um, think I should be able to tell you about at least part of it pretty soon.”

Ginny looked at her searchingly, and then nodded. “I look forward to it. As long,” she added with a smirk, “As this won’t mean that Ron wins the bet. This won’t hit the papers, will it?”

Hermione waited a few moments, clutching the railing for added balance as they made their way up the stairs, passing the first floor and continuing on to the second. Her bedroom was on the third floor, which she was happy with when not weak and sore. “It might,” she admitted finally, “But it wasn’t something that I discovered, so you should be fine if the terms of the bet are what I remember. I… Ginny, can I ask you to do something for me, and not to ask why I need you to do it? It’s not a big thing, I’m just not allowed to explain it yet.”

Ginny blinked. “I mean, sure. I’m pretty confident that you’re not going to trick me into doing something awful. What do you need?”

Hermione swallowed, thinking about how to set this up. “Could you invite Andromeda over for dinner tomorrow, and ask her to bring Teddy? I’d like to talk to her and Harry at the same time. And you, of course.”

Ginny looked extremely curious, but she nodded. “Consider it done. Anything else you need?”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m dead on my feet, honestly, I’m just going to go right to bed. Thanks for your help, Ginny.”

Ginny simply hugged her.

It was only when Hermione reached the end of the landing that she realized that someone was watching her. She looked up, wand in her hand. Kreacher was peering at her from between the rungs of the dark staircase that led up to the fourth floor. Hermione lowered her wand. “Kreacher! You can come down if you want to talk to me. Why are you sitting up there?”

Kreacher’s eyes were wide in the darkness, and he didn’t move. After a moment, he said, “Kreacher doesn’t have to do anything that Mistress Hermione says. Mistress… the mudblood is no longer Kreacher’s mistress.” He had hesitated as he said it, and the look that he cast Hermione now was almost fearful.

Hermione felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. It had been over a year since Kreacher had last called her that. She looked at Kreacher, feeling cold, but then she really took in his expression. The elf looked absolutely miserable. Of _course_ –house elf magic. He must know, somehow, that Sirius had returned. Amazing, really. She took a step towards the stairs, but he skittered back, so she stopped where she was.

“Kreacher,” she said softly, “It’s true that Harry’s no longer your master, and so his asking you to treat me like family no longer applies. But I want to make one thing very clear. I am not going to let Sirius Black treat you the way he used to. Or anyone, for that matter. In return, I’d like to request that you do one thing. Not because I’m your mistress, or because I’ll act any differently if you don’t do this for me. But just as a favor. Because… because I’m your friend.”

Kreacher regarded her silently, his eyes glittering in the dim light.

“I’d like you not to do anything that will let Harry know that Sirius is back before tomorrow night. I’m going to tell him myself. I think anything in the meantime will just confuse and maybe upset him. And it could get me in trouble with the Ministry. Do you understand?”

Kreacher didn’t say anything, but he had cocked his head as if he was thinking about what she had said. A moment later, he snapped his fingers and disappeared.

That, Hermione supposed, was about all she was going to get.


	5. Lost and Found

Chapter 5

“Sirius?” called Hermione.

She knocked on the door of his hospital room again, and this time he answered. “Come in.” He was standing by the window, staring down at the distant street. He was in a set of robes today that looked like they could be his own–black and casually cut. She assumed it must have been what he was wearing at the Ministry. His face was still unshaven and tired, but it was an improvement over the uncharacteristic fragility of yesterday.

“Sirius? I wanted to check in on you, and the Department wants answers to some questions, now that you’ve been cleared by the healers. They said I could be the one to ask–if you’d prefer someone you know?”

Sirius turned to look at her, as if he hadn’t quite processed what she’d said, and she was taken aback by the immense sadness in his face. Sirius Black looked… defeated. “You’re an Unspeakable?” he said finally. “Interesting. Makes sense,” he managed the ghost of a smile as he said it. “You’ve been working beyond most of our speaking levels all along anyway. What do you need to know? Not that there’s much to tell.”

“This shouldn’t take too long, then,” she said, and pulled out her Self-Writing Quill and a clean sheet of parchment. She set them on the table, and told the quill, “Saturday, September 4th, 1999. Sirius Black, St. Mungo’s Hospital.” She looked up at Sirius. “Ready?”

He nodded.

“Great. Let’s begin with what you remember of the lead-up to your… encounter with the Veil. How and when did you end up in the Department of Mysteries?”

Glancing at the expectant quill, Sirius said, a little stiltedly, “It was a Thursday in June. The 17th, I think? 18th? Feels like it was yesterday to me, of course, but I’m bad with dates. The… the Order of the Phoenix, which I’m assuming is known to the Ministry at this point, whose headquarters I was living in at the time, was alerted to an attack by Voldemort and his Death Eaters on the Ministry. We were told that Harry Potter was there and was their target. Along with, as I gathered along the way, a prophecy kept in the Department of Mysteries. I and several other members of the Order apparated to the Ministry to come to the defense of Harry and his friends. They were already fighting in the room–the room where the Veil is, when we found them.”

Hermione nodded encouragingly. “What did you notice about the Veil?”

“To be honest, not much. I think I mostly noticed it in passing as something we might be able to use for cover while dueling. I was too busy fighting to think about how dangerous it was or wasn’t, or what it might be besides an arch.”

“Fair enough. Can you describe the experience of–of passing into it?”

Sirius frowned. “I can barely remember. Bellatrix hit me with a Stunning spell, you see, so I was falling backward and already beginning to lose consciousness when I felt myself hit the Veil. It was… strange. I mostly just remember feeling suddenly that something felt very different and very wrong. Physically so. Like gravity had disappeared, or something. And I could hear voices, just behind me, though I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I can’t compare it to anything I’ve felt before. And then, of course, I don’t remember anything else until I woke up here. I assume because I was fully Stunned the rest of the time.”

Hermione fidgeted with the edge of the paper that the quill was scribbling on, and nodded. “That could certainly be the case. It… well, it could also be because you were dead. I think that’s what we’re trying to figure out. But of course, you wouldn’t necessarily have any way of knowing. You didn’t experience anything at all while you were beyond the Veil?”

Sirius shook his head. “Not that I can remember.”

“Well,” said Hermione, “I suppose that’s that. Quill, you can stop now.” The quill obediently fell still, and Hermione rolled the parchment up and put the items back in her briefcase.

“That was easy enough,” said Sirius. “Do I just go home now, then?”

Hermione blinked. “Um… there are some things I need to fill you in on, actually. I think you’re free to leave as far as the Ministry is concerned. Though you do need to stay reachable until the Department closes this case. Or whatever they call an incident like this. But you actually won’t be able to get into Grimmauld Place if you go now. We’ve set the wards so that only we can get in. We’re living there now, you see–me, Harry, Ginny, and Ron.”

Sirius looked incredulous. “In that dismal wreck? Has Harry suddenly become less rich and famous while I’ve been gone? Why did you all have to live there?”

“I… well, Ron and I live there because Harry and Ginny do, because it’s such a huge house and they offered it. But I think that Harry wanted to live there mostly because of you, if I had to guess. I think it’s the main thing he has left to remind him of you, and of what the Order was like, now that the war is over. It’s really not that dismal anymore, I spent a lot of time over the summer… fixing it up.”

Sirius blinked, taking all of this in. “Well, it’ll certainly be nice not to be alone in the place. I find it hard to imagine it being pleasant even when fixed up.” He eyed her. “Though you being the one behind it is rather more convincing than if most other people had claimed to have fixed it. I take it you’ve gone beyond the removing anything cursed or poisonous phase that was all the Order reached?”

Hermione smiled. “Significantly beyond. There are lights, and red and gold fabrics. You’ll like it.” That had sounded confident. “I think you will, at least. Anyway, I was going to say, you can’t get in on your own, but I can let you in in a couple of hours and reconfigure the wards. You and Harry, of course, will have to talk about the… plan for everything, now that you’re back.”

Sirius shrugged. “No urgency. I’ll be distinctly glad not to be there alone. You lot can stick around indefinitely, as far as I’m concerned. Though I might try and convince Harry that he deserves a proper house.” He mustered a smile, though he still looked harrowed. It was a shame he was still so sad, when they were about to have such a happy reunion with–

Hermione clapped a hand to her forehead. “Oh, Sirius! I’ve been an idiot, I meant to tell you first thing, and then I forgot because I was at work all this morning–there’s something I forgot to tell you yesterday.” He looked startled, and she hurried to add, “No, it’s a good thing–or at least, I think it will help. Tonks and Remus–they have a son! His name is Teddy. He’s going to be there tonight.” She finished in a rush and beamed at him.

He gaped at her, and then strode across the room and grabbed her by the shoulders. He almost seemed like he was going to shake her, but he stopped himself and just stared at her for a moment, looking halfway furious, and then managed, weakly, “Hermione Granger, this is both the best and the worst thing you’ve done to me since they woke me up.” He let go of her and went to go sit down on the bed. He started laughing. “Teddy Lupin. I like it. Of all the… how old is he? Do you think I’m allowed go to Diagon Alley before we go home today? Merlin, how will I explain to Gringotts that I’m back? I want to buy Teddy Lupin a broom.” He flopped backwards onto the bed, laughing helplessly.

Hermione was slightly alarmed, but also grinning in spite of herself. This seemed to be the final straw that had broken Sirius’s composure, and while he was no doubt reaching semi-hysteria, it was wonderful to see that hopeless look gone from his eyes.

“I’m not sure about Gringotts,” she said, “But why don’t I lend you some galleons and Disillusion you–I got really good at it during the war, nobody will recognize you–and then you can shop in peace and pay me back once your return from the dead has been sorted out?”

Sirius sat up, wiping his eyes, and smiled at her a little more calmly. His eyes were a warm gray, which she had somehow never noticed before–she had thought they were dark. “That sounds like an excellent plan,” he said. “And then I’ll meet you outside Grimmauld Place later on–what time? As much as I can’t wait to see Harry, I don’t want to give anybody a heart attack by arriving out of the blue and end up cursed.”

“I think you deserve some time free of curses for a bit, yes,” said Hermione. “Let’s meet on the stoop at six. Now, let me Disillusion you so that nobody attacks you in Diagon Alley either.”

...

Hermione left a disguised and significantly more spirited Sirius assuring a confused healer that he was feeling _entirely better_ and walked to a room further down the ward where the Department’s more significant project of the day was taking place. Nobody, it would seem, knew who the other two people who had emerged from the Veil were. Luna’s boss, Oliver Murdoch, was interviewing them now along with other senior Unspeakables; Hermione and Luna were being allowed to sit in, as they were already de facto involved with the case.

Hermione slipped into the room, which was dominated by a long table, and took a chair next to Luna. The other girl looked a bit sickly still–Hermione wondered how badly she had been injured–but she smiled warmly at Hermione before looking back towards her boss. Murdoch, a dark-haired, intense, and extremely short man somewhere in the ballpark of fifty, was conferring in a low voice with the other two Unspeakables further up the table, a pale and wispy-haired blond woman with a large nose and a dark-skinned man with a bald head and luxurious beard. Both were presumably also from the Death section of the department.

It was not long before they heard a soft knock, and a mediwitch opened the door and ushered in two strangers, both still wearing their hospital robes. They paused and looked around at the Unspeakables in the room before taking their seats at the head of the table. It was difficult to tell from their expressions if they were wary or just overwhelmed. The woman and man both looked like they could be in their twenties. She had long, dark hair and dark eyes, and there was something subtly hawkish about her features–a haughty angle to her cheekbones and nose. She looked dazed, and sat quietly. The man was much harder to get a read on. He had brown hair that tufted in many different directions and an open look to his features, but his pale eyes kept darting around the room with an unusual frequency, as if he was constantly reassessing what was going on.

“What are those?” asked the blond Unspeakable, pointing. The strangers had twin cords around their necks, with inscribed pendants on them.

“Translation amulets,” said Murdoch. “They were speaking a variety of late Anglo-Norman French, and we decided it would make everybody’s lives easier if we could hear them in modern English, and vice-versa.”

“Wise,” the Unspeakable agreed. She busied herself setting up a Self-Writing Quill, while Murdoch turned to address the newcomers.

“Welcome,” he said. “We have asked you a few of these questions already, but for the sake of my colleagues and our records, I will begin at the beginning. Would you both please state your names?”

“I am called Priscille–Priscilla, in your language,” said the woman, “and my brother is Dorian.” The man nodded.

“Do you have a last name?” asked Murdoch.

Dorian looked at his sister, who shrugged. “It is difficult–Du Lac, you would say? Delac? We do not use this name the same, I think,” he explained.

“Delac is fine,” said Murdoch. “You say you are brother and sister–what are your respective ages?”

The siblings looked at each other. “I had twenty years, I think,” said Priscilla, “or perhaps twenty-one years. My brother, he is older. Twenty-five years, perhaps?”

“To confirm, those were your ages when you went through the Veil?” Murdoch asked. Priscilla nodded. “And do you know what year it was when that occurred?” he asked.

Priscilla tilted her head back and forth, unsure. “It has been so long,” she said, “It is like a dream to me. I remember the century turning when we were children.”

“The 14th century? The early 1300s, perhaps?” guessed Murdoch.

Priscilla nodded, though she didn’t look very convinced. Hermione was trying not to look shocked. This witch and wizard were from the _Middle Ages?_

“You say it has been so long–were you conscious of your time within the Veil? Can you describe that experience?” asked Murdoch.

Priscilla shifted, seeming uncomfortable, and looked at Dorian again, as if for help. He nodded at her. “It was not,” she said haltingly, “like real time passing. It was as if we dreamed–some moments, they were eternities, and others flew by and we forgot them. It was like the dreaming never ended, and nothing was ever…” she struggled for words, and finally settled on, “Nothing truly ever _was_. Only, usually, we were together in the dream, not alone. Many times, others were there too, but we learned that they would fade, and change.”

“People you knew?” asked Murdoch.

“...yes,” said Priscilla. “Except, they were not themselves. They were many selves, in different dreams. But never was anyone new. Until that man, who you say is called Black. But he was always sleeping, so we grew bored and did not care when he appeared.”

Murdoch nodded. “Was there a pattern to these dreams?” he asked. “Anything that commonly happened, or recurred?”

Priscilla stared at him for a moment, and then looked at Dorian, whose face was expressionless. She began to laugh, a little strangely. “Monsieur,” she finally said to Murdoch, “When you have been dreaming for centuries, I will ask you what did _not_ commonly occur. The darkest things you can imagine, they were there with us. There were also wonders. Sometimes there were places, empty places where we wandered for–days? Years? What patterns have there been in your life, monsieur? What has happened?” she shook her head, still grinning, though Dorian seemed to have shrunk in on himself. “To be honest, monsieur,” she said, “I do not even know what I can remember, and what my brain has imagined. Perhaps they are the same thing. Much, I know I have forgotten.”

She finished, and Murdoch blinked at her. “I am the same,” ventured Dorian into the silence. “I find I can barely conceive that we are here. The lifetimes we have been in that place–at moments they are all that is real, but more and more, they are phantoms that recede when I try to touch them.” He fell silent and looked down, while Priscilla looked over at him with concern. She reached over and took his hand.

“I see,” said Murdoch. “Thank you for your help in trying to describe it to us. And now I must ask–how is it that you ended up beyond the Veil in the first place? What caused you to pass through?”

There was a long silence, while Dorian looked down at the table and Priscilla sat, introspective. Finally, she looked at Murdoch, and said flatly, “I do not recall.”

Murdoch seemed a little bit taken aback, but he looked at Dorian. And kept looking at Dorian. Dorian sat there in the silence, shrinking in on himself. Finally, he looked up to find five Unspeakables staring at him. He addressed himself to Murdoch, very quietly: “I pushed my sister through. And then I followed her in.”

Priscilla was looking at him sideways, with hooded eyes. She reached out a hand again, and took his, as if to offer comfort.

Murdoch, to his credit, looked like he was finished with that line of questioning, at least for now. He cleared his throat. “I thank you for your candor. Your answers to these questions, as a reminder, are strictly confidential within the Department of Mysteries, and will remain so. One final question, before we release you to the healers for some further evaluations–for your benefit, as you make a transition to the modern world. What, if anything, did you know about the Veil before the, er, encounter that led to your entering it?”

Priscilla and Dorian looked at each other. “Dorian built the Veil,” she said, finally. “With my help.”

“And,” said Dorian, “I do not remember how.” Both siblings looked forward at the Unspeakables, their set faces a mirror image. That, apparently, was all they were going to say.

Five Unspeakables leaned back in their chairs, bowled over. This case, it seemed, was going to take some unraveling.


	6. Coming Home

Chapter 6

Hermione appeared on the stoop of number twelve, Grimauld Place with a pop. It took her a moment of peering around before she spotted a grumpy looking man sitting on a staircase several doors down. She hopped down the steps and waved to Sirius, then swished her wand to remove his disguise. He jumped a little when he saw her–she had been as invisible as the house while she stood on the stoop–but leapt up eagerly and strode over.

“I trust everything went well in Diagon Alley?” she asked him. He nodded. “Good,” she said, and turned to face the door with him. “Merlin, I’m not sure I’m ready–should I have warned Harry?”

“I,” said Sirius, “am _very_ ready. It doesn’t matter, he can pack in all the surprise now.”

“Right,” said Hermione. “Well, here goes nothing.” She turned the handle, and the door swung obligingly open. She heard Sirius catch his breath as the redone entryway came into view. They stepped inside, below the warmly glowing chandelier and past a distinct absence of troll-leg umbrella stands. The walls had been re-papered in a creamy gold, and a small statuette of a hippogriff blinked at them from the top of a wrought iron coat rack.

“This is… nice,” said Sirius behind her, in a low and very surprised tone. “How on earth did you move my mother’s portrait?”

“I didn’t,” said Hermione, blushing slightly. “I extended the wall forward and over it, and made it impermeable to sound. She is probably, um, rather upset in there.”

“Allow me to correct myself. This is _really_ nice.” When Hermione looked back, Sirius grinned at her. She smiled back, and then looked away again, feeling an odd spike of shyness. She pointed towards the kitchen, from which they could hear a murmur of voices and the odd clink. “I’m not sure who’s here yet, but they should all be in there. I’ll, uh, go in first.”

She hurried along the hall and down the steps to the kitchen, and Sirius followed more slowly behind. She paused a moment at the kitchen door and turned back to meet his eyes, her look questioning. He nodded.

She pushed open the kitchen door and slipped in, holding it just barely closed behind her. Harry, Ron, and Ginny turned to look at her from the kitchen table. Kreacher, standing by the fireplace, appeared to have already been watching the doorway.

“Hey, Hermione,” said Ginny, into the silence. “I invited Andromeda and Teddy over for dinner. They should be here in about half an hour. What’s… up?” She almost managed not to sound awkward.

“Thanks for inviting them, Ginny,” said Hermione. She looked between the three of them. “I, uh, have something important to tell you. There was an incident in my Department a few days ago that I can’t talk about. But it undid something that I didn’t think was possible. That none of us thought was possible. And, well,” she looked directly at Harry, who was beginning to look worried. “You’ll, uh… you’ll never guess who’s back.” She pushed open the door behind her, and stood to the side.

Sirius stepped into the kitchen, and Harry turned white. Ron and Ginny wore expressions of identical shock. In a tone softer than anything Hermione had heard from him, Sirius said, “Harry,” and simply held out his arms. Harry launched himself across the room, and then the two men were hugging fiercely. Harry had his head buried in Sirius’s shoulder, and Sirius himself was beaming, clapping Harry on the back repeatedly. Hermione was crying again, and she felt like an idiot until Harry looked up to reveal a face also streaming with tears, though he was smiling.

“Sirius,” he said, his voice breaking, “How?”

“I honestly don’t understand it myself,” Sirius told him. “I don’t think I was ever dead. But,” he shot a glance at Hermione, “I don’t think I’m allowed to say more for fear of being Obliviated. Suffice to say that I’m back, for good.”

“I’m… so glad,” was all Harry could manage, before wordlessly hugging Sirius again. Ginny, now also grinning through tears, stood up as the two men stepped apart and went in for a hug as well. Sirius then made the round over to Ron, who continued to look as if he had been hit over the head with a frying pan, but said weakly, “Blimey, mate, it’s good to see you.”

It was when Sirius let go of Ron and found himself standing in front of Kreacher that Hermione tensed. Sirius was staring at the elf coldly, and the look on Kreacher’s face was positively venomous. It had been Kreacher, Hermione remembered suddenly, who had ensured that Harry went to the Ministry, and that Sirius and the other Order members had had to follow. It was so hard to conceive, now, of what the elf had been like when feeling vicious. “So, I see that this… thing is still here,” Sirius said, finally. “I’m surprised it hasn’t died yet.”

“Kreacher is surprised,” returned the elf, “that blood traitor Master Sirius has not stayed dead, where he was less of a disappointment to Kreacher’s poor mistress. Kreacher–”

“ _Kreacher_ ,” broke in Harry, glaring at the elf. “Apologize to Sirius.” The elf only regarded him balefully, and Harry looked taken aback.

“I don’t think Kreacher takes orders from you anymore,” said Sirius, looking down at the elf in disgust. “Kreacher,” he asked, “If I declare Harry my heir again, and co-owner of this house, will you accept him as your master?”

“Kreacher must do as Kreacher’s master commands,” the elf said grudgingly.

“Good,” said Sirius. “Treat Harry as your master. And Hermione, and Ron, and Ginny, while we’re at it. Now, I think Harry gave you an order.” Hermione winced at the satisfaction with which Sirius said this last.

“Kreacher… offers his _apology_ to Master Sirius,” said the elf, in a tone which made apologies sound like a painful injury.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” said Harry. “Now, Sirius, please apologize to Kreacher. I can’t have you two fighting the way you used to. Sirius, I’ve… Merlin, I’ve got a lot to fill you in on.”

Sirius was looking at Harry incredulously. “You want _me_ to apologize to the elf? This _toadstool_? The one who sent you to the Ministry, and, as far as you knew, got me killed?”

Harry opened his mouth, closed it again, and then finally just said, “Yes.”

Sirius’s shoulders sagged, and, continuing to look annoyed, he turned to the elf. “Kreacher,” he said, “I’m sorry for announcing my surprise at your continued existence.” Harry raised his eyebrows, and Sirius grudgingly added, “And for describing you as a toadstool.”

Harry looked at Hermione, and shrugged. He’d tried.

They spent the next half hour attempting to start in on telling Sirius about everything that he had missed. Snape came first, perhaps naturally, as Sirius immediately asked about Dumbledore. They had just started in on horcruxes when the front doorbell rang. Ginny went to get it, and, a moment later, she ushered in Andromeda Tonks, carrying a chubby and very charming green-haired toddler.

Andromeda had stopped dead in the doorway when she caught sight of Sirius. Her jaw dropped, and she seemed frozen in place, clutching Teddy closer to herself.

Sirius stood up. “Dromeda,” he said, smiling at her gently. “If you’re not a sight for sore eyes.”

“Who,” she said, “are you, and why do you look like Sirius Black?”

It took several minutes of explanations and a few testing questions from Andromeda to convince her that this was truly Sirius, and that he was truly back. Once this had been established, though, she introduced him to Teddy. The toddler was happily transferred to Sirius’s lap and seemed fascinated by his cousin’s longer hair, immediately growing his green hair out to match. Andromeda, pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket, had to step out into the hallway to collect herself.

The look on Sirius’s face as he smiled down at the child warmed Hermione’s heart. Uncomplicated happiness was a thing that Sirius Black deserved more of. Harry sat down next to him and proceeded to poke Teddy in the stomach, which made the little boy giggle delightedly and squirm away. “I’m his godfather,” Harry told Sirius, continuing to look at Teddy as he said it.

Sirius looked up at him, and Hermione caught a flash of pain on his face before he smiled. “That’s good,” he said, and it seemed like he meant it. “That’s exactly like Remus.”

...

Hermione was lying in bed next to a snoring Ron that night, staring at the ceiling and failing to fall asleep. Her mind wouldn’t turn off, which was a problem she sometimes had. She wasn’t worried about anything, exactly, just… awake. She was thinking that she might need to give up and go have some tea when she heard a door creak open down the hallway, and footsteps start quietly down the stairs. That had to be Sirius, who had reclaimed the master bedroom further down the hallway on the third floor.

Hermione sat up. She had been wanting to talk to Sirius about Kreacher without any witnesses, as he might be less defensive that way. She wasn’t falling asleep anytime soon, so this was as good a chance as any. She slipped out into the hallway and crept down the stairs as quietly as she could, so as not to wake Harry and Ginny on the second floor. When she reached the ground floor, she saw that a light was already on in the kitchen.

The kitchen door creaked as she pushed it open, and Sirius, standing by the stove, stiffened. When he turned around, Hermione abandoned her plan of raising the topic of Kreacher and immediately began to feel guilty for having intruded. Sirius’s face was pale, and his eyes red-rimmed. This threw into high contrast the gray of his irises, which were almost silver now in the light from the fireplace. He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing earlier, only rumpled. He looked at her wordlessly, and raised an eyebrow.

“I couldn’t sleep,” said Hermione, hovering nervously in the doorway. She was very conscious, suddenly, that she was wearing nothing but a pale blue nightgown. “I was going to make some tea,” she added.

“Great minds,” said Sirius, with something resembling a smile. He nodded at the kettle. “I’m two steps ahead of you.”

Hermione smiled back, maybe a little too brightly, and went to rummage in the cupboard for mugs. She handed one to Sirius, and they waited in companionable silence for the kettle to finish boiling, and then sat down on opposite sides of the kitchen table with their tea.

“Why can’t you sleep?” asked Sirius. His back was to the fireplace now, and his face was in shadow when he held his head at a certain angle. Hermione couldn’t see his expression clearly.

She tilted her head back and forth, weighing her answer. “I just couldn’t stop thinking,” she said eventually. “Not about something specific. Or maybe about several specific things. Work. The Veil. All the things that might change, now that you’re back.” She paused, and then decided to offer Sirius some vulnerability, as a kind of exchange. She doubted that he liked for anybody to witness him as obviously upset as he’d been when she walked in. “Also about my parents,” she said, “and Ron.”

“What about your parents?” he asked. His tone was gently conversational, as if he recognized that this was a weighty topic and was giving her the option to keep it casual if she wanted to.

“I… I erased their memories. Or really, replaced them. During the war, I needed to protect them, so I gave them new identities and sent them overseas. They’re living quite happily now, I think. They just don’t know who I am.”

Sirius shook his head. “That’s rough.” His voice was soft. He knew, perhaps, that sometimes there wasn’t much that anyone could say. “I’m guessing” he added finally, “that they might have something to do with why you’ve become an Unspeakable?”

Hermione nodded, glad that he’d arrived at the conclusion himself and that she didn’t have to confirm anything verbally about her department.

Sirius smiled. “Makes sense. I find it hard to imagine you letting something as mundane as the laws of magic stand between you and solving a problem. And Ron?”

Hermione blinked. “What about Ron?”

“You said you were also awake worrying about Ron.”

“Oh.” She had said that. “I… he’s going away to France tomorrow, for a year of training at a program in Paris for investigative magic.”

“Ah. Long distance can be hard. I’m sorry.”

Hermione shrugged. “It’s actually less that, to be honest, than hoping that the training will work out for him. He’s been having some... issues, at work.”

“Training sounds like just the thing, then,” said Sirius. “Being an Auror doesn’t come naturally, it’s a whole load of practice and misery before you get good. Take it from me, I had to… readjust my ego when I hit working after Hogwarts, pretty significantly.”

Hermione tilted her head curiously. “You were an Auror?” she asked. She hadn’t known that, though it made a lot of sense.

Sirius nodded. “Right out of seventh year. I was ready to take on the Death Eaters any way I could. With James, of course. We were usually a team.”

He had said it calmly, but, perhaps because it was nighttime, and the room was dark, more emotion fell on the words than usually did when Sirius talked about Harry’s parents. A silence fell, and Hermione blew on her tea, though it didn’t really need it. After a few moments, she ventured, “Why can’t you sleep?”

Sirius smiled the harsh smile that Hermione was coming to recognize. “I’d barely know where to begin,” he said. “It’s… strange being back, like this.” He seemed more tense, and Hermione decided that talking about his feelings was not what he needed. After all, when in the last couple of decades would he have been given the chance to practice?

Maybe she could be the one to do the talking for him. “I’d imagine,” she said quietly, addressing herself more to her mug than to Sirius, “that this must be a kind of horrible repetition. You’ve… you’ve lost years again, like you did in Azkaban. And you’ve lost Remus and Tonks while you weren’t there to protect them, like with Lily and James.”

She didn’t look up at Sirius, and after a moment, he shifted in his chair. “That’s… about it, yes,” he said, very quietly. “Unfortunately, there’s not much to be done, seeing as Bellatrix and Voldemort are already dead. I don’t suppose you’ve got any suggestions.” He said it as less of a bitter joke than he usually might.

Hermione looked up, finally meeting his eyes. He flinched a little, but held her gaze. There was a bottomless sadness in his face, and a kind of anger. She tried to convey all her understanding through her expression, but it felt insufficient. And so she reached across the table and took one of his hands in hers. His skin was warm. “I think,” she told him, “That’s it’s not so much what you can do, as how you can live with it. And eventually grow past it. I’ve…” she looked down, and even more quietly, said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about grief, recently. Not that I’ve been able to bring myself to give up yet. But, I’ve been letting the idea live in my mind. It’s not that different from a dementor, the feeling of it. The way it keeps coming back at you, and the way it drains you.”

Something occurred to her, and she looked back up at Sirius. “Have you considered,” she said, “adapting some of your strategies from Azkaban? That sounds strange, but what I mean is–times like now, when you can’t sleep, or do anything. Maybe you could sleep as Padfoot. Just for tonight, and see if it helps.”

Sirius was looking at her silently, his expression impossible to read. Finally, he said, with half a smile, “Hermione Granger, I had little doubt that you were still the brightest witch of your age. But I hadn’t realized you were also one of the wisest.”

Hermione flushed, feeling absurdly gratified. She realized she was still holding Sirius’s hand, and she let go, hastily picking up her mug of tea again. Sirius stood up, and went to place his mug in the sink. When he reached the doorway, he stopped, and looked back. “Good night, Hermione. I hope you get to sleep.”

“Good night, Sirius.”

He turned and disappeared up the stairs.

Hermione was left contemplating the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled genuinely, and how good it was to see. She found herself flushing again at the thought.

And suddenly, she realized something. Something ridiculous. Something _not good_. She put her head in her hands, and almost groaned.

She had a crush on Sirius Black. She had a _big_ crush on Sirius Black.

Of all the idiotic things. This was going to have to be stamped out, and soon.


	7. Bacon, and Troubles with Thoughts

Chapter 7

Hermione made a resolution the next morning to start treating Sirius with less attention. He was a grown man, after all, and could take care of himself without her help. He’d been doing it for decades.

This resolution was unfortunately shattered when, as Hermione and Harry were starting in on their breakfast together, a huge black dog trotted into the kitchen and wagged his tail enthusiastically at them both. Hermione found herself giggling as the dog put his paws on Harry’s knees and tried somewhat threateningly to lick Harry’s ear, all the while continuing to furiously wag his tail.

“No!” squeaked Harry, batting ineffectually at Sirius and trying to squirm away in his chair. “Please, God, help! Hermione! Sirius, stop! Don’t you _dare_ lick my ear! Oh _god_ , no, help!” He was half falling out of his chair, and Hermione had collapsed onto the table in helpless laughter.

“Sirius,” came a voice from the doorway, and Harry, Hermione, and Sirius all froze and then turned to look. Ginny was standing in the doorway, trying–apparently with great difficulty–to maintain a straight face as she pointed her wand at Sirius. “Sirius, step away from Harry’s ear,” she told him, her eyes dancing but her posture menacing, “Or there will be consequences.”

Sirius blinked at her and then huffed, hopping down from Harry’s knees. Harry, sagging in relief, mouthed “I love you” to Ginny, who smirked. Sirius, apparently still feeling mischievous, came over to sit beside Hermione and rested his muzzle on the table, looking with liquid canine eyes at the single piece of bacon left on her plate.

Hermione, being weak, gave it to him.

“Hermione,” said Harry, who had regained his composure, “I’m surprised at you. How will he learn?”

“You have to be firm with him,” agreed Ginny in a tone of mock disapproval, as she took the seat next to Harry. “That, and threatening. Firm threats. It’s the only way.”

Sirius, audibly crunching his bacon, turned and strutted away from the table, transforming with each step until, in a wrinkled black t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, he stood in fully human form again and took a plate from the cabinet for his own breakfast. When he had filled it, he plunked it down next to Hermione and, sinking into the chair, grinned at her. “Thanks for the bacon.”

Hermione, hoping she was not visibly pink, nodded at him in as dignified a way as she could manage. “Breakfast,” she declared to the table at large, “is the most important meal of the day.”

“Sure is,” said Ron, a moment later. He had just slumped down the steps into the room and smiled at everyone a little groggily. “Do I smell bacon?” he asked, sitting down at Hermione’s other side and leaning in to give her a peck on the cheek. Hermione stiffened slightly and felt immediately wracked with guilt. She should _not_ feel awkward that Ron was being affectionate in front of… other people. Ron was her boyfriend, and it was perfectly normal.

“I think Sirius got the last piece,” said Harry, prompting a wolfish grin from his godfather, “but we could have Kreacher cook more bacon, if you want. It _is_ your goodbye breakfast, after all.”

Ron blinked. “I mean, more of a see you in a bit breakfast, but I wouldn’t say no to-” he caught the expression on Hermione’s face, and rerouted: “-to having something other than bacon. Fine by me. Hey Kreacher,” he called, “what’s still around for breakfast?”

Kreacher cracked open the door to the pantry, which Hermione suspected he was keeping closed because of Sirius. “There are fruits,” he croaked, “in the cold cabinet, and muffins that Kreacher made two days ago, and-”

“Oh, come on,” said Sirius. “Kreacher can make more bacon, Ron. Give the thing something to do.”

“ _Sirius_ ,” said Hermione.

“What?”

Hermione just glowered, and Sirius leaned back and crossed his arms, smirking slightly. “What? You wouldn’t want Kreacher to feel unneeded, would you, Hermione? Kreacher, how do you feel about making bacon? You can be honest.”

Kreacher eyed him. “Who is the bacon for, Kreacher wonders?” he offered.

“Kreacher, nobody wants more bacon, you can-” began Hermione, while Sirius replied over her, “Why, for _Ron_ , Kreacher. Ron is about to go on a trip, and he needs his energy. Even Hermione wouldn’t object so long as you feel _fulfilled_ making the bacon, you understand, so I want you to know what it’s for. How does that sound, Kreacher?” His tone was dripping with solicitous care for the elf, which would have been almost creepy if he hadn’t been so obviously poking for a reaction from Hermione.

Hermione told herself it would be indecorous to stomp on Sirius’s foot. This side of him, she had almost forgotten. He was like Fred and George, if they had been bred to be as obnoxious as Draco Malfoy.

“Really, Kreacher, I’m fine. You go back to… whatever you were up to,” said Ron, who had been watching Hermione’s expression with mild concern. “ _Accio_ muffin,” he added, meekly, and Hermione leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek.

As breakfast continued, she pointedly ignored Sirius. This, unfortunately, did not seem to perturb him at all. He only grinned when he realized what she was doing, looking infuriatingly satisfied with himself, and turned to talk to Ginny about the current state of Quidditch. At this, even Ron lost all signs of early-morning bleariness and joined in the conversation with enthusiasm. Hermione barely refrained from rolling her eyes. Quidditch. _Men_.

Before she was quite ready for it, though, breakfast was over and Ron was standing up, looking around at everyone with sudden solemnity. “Well,” he said, a bit awkwardly, “I think it’s about time for me to head out. I’ll be back soon to visit, obviously, but…” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly reluctant to sound sentimental.

“Ronald,” said Ginny, “calm down and hug us.” She went in for a hug without waiting for him to respond, and Ron grinned down at her.

“Careful with the bossiness,” he told her, “or you’ll start sounding like Mum.” Ginny drew back and gave him a death glare, which only made his grin widen. “Take care of Harry,” he added.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, mate,” said Harry, moving in for a hug of his own. He and Ron wordlessly thumped each other on the back for a few moments while they hugged, which amused Hermione. Some kind of male bonding ritual.

Looking a little unsure, Ron turned to Sirius next, who shook his hand warmly. “Good luck, Ron,” he said, “Try and have fun. And... remember that some of the best Aurors get specialized training. Also, remind me when you’re back, and I’ll tell you about all the things James accidentally blew up in his first year as an Auror.”

Ron’s ears had turned red, and he shot a glance at Harry–assuming, Hermione guessed, that Harry had been the one who had filled Sirius in on Ron’s situation. Harry just blinked back, looking bewildered. “Thanks, Sirius,” said Ron. “I appreciate it. It’s… that story would be cool to hear. Um, good luck with–uh, with everything.”

“Thanks,” said Sirius. “Harry and I are off to talk to Kingsley tomorrow, so I think I’ll be all set. Still bizarre to me that he’s Minister of Magic. Anyway, I didn’t mean to get preacherly. Enjoy the French food.”

Ron smiled back a bit more genuinely at that.

Ginny apparently decided, at this point, that the situation required her help. “Alright,” she said, “everybody out.” She made sweeping gestures at Harry and Sirius. “Let Ron and Hermione say goodbye in peace, now.”

“Ginny, you don’t-” began Hermione, but Ginny ignored her.

“Out, out,” she continued imperiously, and Harry and Sirius shuffled out, exchanging looks of mingled surprise and amusement. Hermione’s face had turned beet red by the time Ginny closed the door behind them.

“Um,” said Ron. “Leave it to Ginny.” He was looking at Hermione a little bit tentatively, clearly noticing her embarrassment.

Hermione shook her head. “It’s sweet of her,” she said, and hugged Ron, burying her still-pink face in his shoulder. He rested his chin on top of her head, and they stood that way for a long moment.

“I’ll miss you, ‘Mione,” he said softly. “Not sure how I’ll keep my head screwed on correctly without you around.”

“I’m not sure how anybody does,” she said into his shoulder, and he snorted.

“Always so modest.” He paused, and then said more softly, “You know, you can write more often, if you want. I like to hear from you even when I’m busy.” He felt her stiffen slightly, and added quickly, “Not that I think you’d think I wouldn’t. Want to hear from you, that is. I just worry you might be being delicate sometimes when you think I’m stressed. I’d… I’d rather hear from you a lot, and miscommunicate sometimes, and then figure it out, you know?”

Hermione pulled her head back from his shoulder and looked up at him. “I can do that,” she said, feeling flooded with remorse. She _had_ been being delicate because she thought he was stressed and irritable. She just always worried that she was going to say the wrong thing. He was always far less troubled by their fights than she was. “You know,” she added, as gently as she could, “you could stand to write to me more often, too.”

It was Ron’s turn to look remorseful. “I… you’re right,” he said. “I could. See, I’m an idiot sometimes, ‘Mione. But we knew this.”

“Only sometimes,” she agreed, smiling. They returned to their hug, fitted warmly against each other, for a few more comforting moments. Hermione finally drew back. “Alright,” she said, “You’ve got all your bags, and everything you need for your visa when you get there?”

Ron nodded, looking a little exasperated, if fond. “Just as much now as I did the other times you asked.” He turned to the pot of floo powder, and stepped over to the fireplace with a pinch of it, squaring his shoulders. He shot Hermione one last grin. “I’ll bring you some of those French sandwich cookie things-”

“ _Macarons_ ,” corrected Hermione, wincing-

“And I’ll see you soon,” Ron finished blithely. “Le Controle de Magie, Paris,” he told the fireplace, and, in a puff of green flames, he was gone.

It was only then that Hermione realized she’d forgotten to kiss him goodbye. Odd. She really would miss him, though. She felt a bit of a lump in her throat at the thought. Sometimes Ron really was her best friend.

...

Before Hermione felt quite prepared for it, the relentless normality of the work week crept back into her life. Harry was taking off a few days of work to help Sirius with trips to the Ministry and to Diagon Alley, and to do a joint interview with the _Daily Prophet_. Harry felt his celebrity would help Sirius’s image with everyone who still feared his godfather’s reputation, and he also was used to attempting to keep the _Prophet_ within reasonable bounds. They had decided that the story of Sirius’s return was less likely to be sensational if they headed it off at the pass with a few very boring–and very untruthful–quotes. As far as the _Prophet_ and most of the Wizarding world would be concerned, the original reports of Sirius’s death had been a false story propagated to protect him from Voldemort’s followers, and he had spent the past several years living in an unspecified location abroad. If pushed, Harry and Sirius would admit that it had been orchestrated by Albus Dumbledore, and that they were really quite awed and bewildered as to how the late mastermind had managed it so convincingly.

Hermione, meanwhile, was finally getting to work with the brains.

“Careful” said Fenshaw from beside her, as Hermione reached rubber glove-clad arms down into the tank. “You want to sort of usher it towards you, more than anything else. Try to directly touch it as little as possible, they don’t like that very much. Though this one,” she observed, as the brain Hermione was sweeping her hand next to sluggishly floated over, “probably can’t give you much trouble.”

“Why’s that?” asked Hermione, staring down in fascination as the brain bobbed to the surface and glistened there, unmoving except for the occasional eddy in the water around it.

“You see how this one doesn’t move much? That means it’s not a very magical brain. Or the wizard or witch it belonged to wasn’t, when they were alive. You can see a very subtle hint of the thought-spirals underneath it–there, and there–but, on the whole, it’s fairly static. The more active brains are the more magical ones, and you see the thought spirals solidifying out into tangible tendrils on some of the most powerful ones. That’s what you have to be most wary of when working with them, because those are essentially physically manifested non-verbal magic. And Merlin only knows what kind of spells these blighters are cooking up. It’s all that’s really left to them.”

“You’re talking about the tentacles?” asked Hermione, gazing wide-eyed into the far corner of the tank where a school of the more active brains were swimming.

Fenshaw looked at her witheringly. “Yes,” she said, in the dryest voice imaginable. “The tentacles. Don’t touch them.”

“Got it,” said Hermione. “If the tentacles are manifested magical thought, I’m assuming that’s not just normal thoughts? Do you put them… um, in a pensieve, to get at those? Though” she wrinkled her brow, “a pensieve is for-”

“-memories,” agreed Fenshaw, “and not thoughts. The trouble with thoughts is that they’re not fully established until they’ve become memories, and at that point they stop being thoughts. It’s sometimes possible to extract memories from these brains, actually, though most of the ones in here have been pretty thoroughly drained at this point. But the thoughts are more like low-level chatter, and then like those tendrils when they get really focused. I could go on about this for hours, but I think the relevant thing for you is going to be that borderline into memory.”

“Wait,” Hermione said, eyes gleaming as a thought occurred to her, “Some of what I’m reading talks about memories not staying the same even on their own. And I obviously know that they can be edited or erased. But in the part of those processes where they change–are they thoughts again at that point, because they’re dynamic? Or are they still fundamentally different from actively thinking, because they’re memories of things in the past?”

Fenshaw gave her a look of approval. “Those,” she said, “are exactly the questions you should be asking. Another would be, where do we keep memories, and how is that different from where we keep thoughts?” She pointed at the tank. “Tomorrow we’ll take that brain over to the cogitoire–it’s a little like a pensieve, you’ll like it–and I’ll start showing you. In the meantime, I’ve got a book on the thought-memory dichotomy that should be useful. It’s a bit dense, even for me, but it’s good stuff.” She peeled her long rubber gloves off, nodding at Hermione to do the same. “Tonight, though, I’ve got a different assignment for you. Really, it’s ongoing, but I wanted to give you as much of a head start as possible.” She was looking very serious, and Hermione felt an urge to stand to attention.

“Later this week,” said Fenshaw, “likely on Thursday, the Delacs will be released from St. Mungo’s. They’ll be joining us here in the Department as Unspeakables, at least for the time being. Honestly, the powers and knowledge that they would need to build something like the Veil were just too much for us to pass up taking a swipe at. Some of my… colleagues are suggesting that they should rebuild it. I think that’s an impressively stupid idea, seeing as its creators ended up effectively dead the first time they tried it, but I do want to know _how_ they did it originally. Which will probably necessarily involve recreating certain parts of it. Many of my other colleagues agree with me. As you can imagine, the whole project is risky, even for this Department’s standards. Mostly because we don’t know these people, or what they want. For that reason, we want to keep an eye on them. Delicately. But thoroughly.”

Hermione nodded intently. This was where she came in, she assumed.

“You,” said Fenshaw, “have the advantage of already being connected with the project in a few ways, and of being… generally non-threatening.” Hermione told herself that this was a compliment. Possibly. “You and Lovegood are going to be assigned to collaborate with them and help them with their project and with whatever adjustments they need to make to modern magic. You’ll both be asked to keep an eye open, but you’re the one whose central job it actually is to observe them. Poke around. Be sensitive. Write me regular reports on everything you pull together. Lovegood will be in charge of legitimately helping them with their research, and of helping you blend in. Make sense?”

“Yes. Except–um, except for one thing. The Delacs are a rare and important sort of thing, even for this Department, right?” Fenshaw raised an eyebrow, as if to ask why Hermione had stopped talking, and Hermione continued hastily, “Well, I’m just wondering why Luna and I are being assigned, when we’re so new in the Department.”

“Fair question,” said Fenshaw. “It’s admittedly a little bit unfortunate, but part of the way the Department works is that people who make messes are typically the ones who have to clean them up. And everybody makes messes of some kind, so there’s less resentment that way. It also tends to result in the most net insight gained, because the person solving the problem knows the details of how it was created. In this particular case, something about your access to muggle science prompted Lovegood’s insight. We’re hoping, among other things, that you might push that connection further.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. It amazed her sometimes that the magical community had cordoned off “muggle studies” as much as they had, when the overlaps between muggle and wizard thinking were often so obvious to her. Come to think of it, that might be a fruitful track to go down in her own research. What, she wondered, were muggle brains like when you put them in a tank?


	8. Brothers, Sisters, and Things Not Said

Chapter 8

“So how is Sirius Black?” asked Luna. She and Hermione were sitting in the Hall of Death, waiting for the Delacs to return from their tour of the Department. The stone dais at the center of the room had been cleared, and tables and shelves had been provided for the work that would be done in reconstructing parts of the Veil.

“He’s surprisingly good,” said Hermione, looking carefully at her knees rather than at her friend. Luna had a way of hearing several layers underneath whatever Hermione said. While this was normally a refreshing habit, Hermione wasn’t sure that she wanted to discuss the layers of her thoughts about Sirius. Luna waited, though, so Hermione continued. “Still a little raw, of course, but I think Sirius has been like that ever since I’ve known him. Sort of getting on with everything a little bit too intensely. I think he’s mostly incredibly relieved to not be trapped anymore, now that the war is over and his name has been cleared. He’s been spending the week dashing around visiting all the familiar places he couldn’t go after Azkaban.”

Luna nodded. “Godric’s Hollow?” she asked.

“Yes, the first day,” said Hermione, surprised that Luna had enough of a sense of Sirius to predict that. She wasn’t sure that Luna had even met the man. “And Hogwarts, obviously. I don’t suppose you’d like any of Hagrid’s rock cakes? We’ve got… many, now.”

Luna’s face lit up. “I’d love some!”

“Please, take them,” said Hermione, trying not to sound too relieved. It wasn’t taking advantage of Luna, she told herself, if the Ravenclaw genuinely _liked_ the things. “We’re having a dinner today, you should-” she broke off as a door swung open across the hall, and voices announced the arrival of the others.

Murdoch was in active conversation with Priscilla Delac, who seemed, as they came into earshot down the steps, to be very curious about the way the rest of the Ministry of Magic worked. “Explain to me,” she was saying, “how it is that this Minister rules? Why is he obeyed? Does your Ministry have warriors?” She was, for some reason, wearing an odd, simply cut gray dress rather than an Unspeakable uniform. It made Hermione realize that she had no idea what wizard fashion in the Middle Ages had been. Could this be her own authentic clothing?

Her brother, by contrast, was wearing an Unspeakable’s dark, linear robe, with what looked to be a second robe draped over his arm. He had paused at the top of the steps and was staring all around the room with something of a lost expression.

When Priscilla reached the floor, she seemed to realize that he had lingered, and she turned impatiently back. “Dorian,” she said, and then louder, “ _Dorian_.” He twitched, and looked down guiltily. “The room,” she said, “is not going anywhere. Come hear what Monsieur Murdoch is telling us. We will get to begin soon.”

With the ready obedience of a summoned pet, Dorian trotted down the steps and looked questioningly at Murdoch, and then at Hermione and Luna. His eyes were curiously wide and absent, but intent, as if he were thinking hard about something not currently present. The expression was one that Hermione was beginning to recognize as typical for him.

“Excellent,” said Murdoch. “I’d like to formally introduce you both to Luna Lovegood and Hermione Granger. They have been assigned to work with you on your reconstruction project. I’ll leave you in their capable hands.” He looked at Luna. “Anything you need before I head back to my office, Lovegood?”

“Nothing, sir,” she said, “except for an owl.”

This seemed to make sense to Murdoch. “Good thinking,” he said. “I’ll send you Haunt in a minute.” He nodded sharply, halfway between approval and a salute, and then he pivoted and, with a pop, was gone.

“This,” said Dorian, who was looking avidly at the spot where he had vanished, “I wish to learn. Your magic is marvelous in this time.”

“Are there so many differences?” asked Luna curiously.

“I think,” said Priscilla, before Dorian could reply, “that the marvelous magic has less to do with this time and more to do with Hogwarts, Dorian. My brother and I,” she explained to Luna, “did not attend your school, which we have been given to understand is considered a strange thing.”

“Where did you learn magic, then?” asked Hermione.

“From our parents,” said Priscilla, shrugging, “and from our family and our allies. This thing of teaching just anybody the secrets of magic, it is a new idea, I think. We think of magic as a thing to… keep.”

“To keep in trust,” added Dorian quietly. “Like an inheritance. I think, however,” he added with a grin, “that I can see my way to giving up my magics for more of yours. I like this Ministry very much. You have more treasures than I could hope to create alone.”

Priscilla was smiling at him with a certain tolerance, though she nodded in agreement at his last remark. “I wish to see,” she began, but a flapping at the side of the room interrupted her, and the four of them turned to look as a screech owl came swooping down the stone tiers towards them. Haunt, presumably. Priscilla’s eyes lit up, and, making a strange clicking sound, she held her arm out into the air. The owl landed on her outstretched hand and folded its wings, clicking its beak back at her. With great dignity, she brought up her other hand and used a single finger to stroke the bird on the beak.

“My sister,” confided Dorian to Hermione and Luna, “likes birds very much. She had one, once. A hunting bird.”

“A hawk,” corrected Priscilla, who was gently scratching the bird’s head. “I will be over here, Dorian,” she said, drifting towards the first stone tier and sitting on the edge, “when you wish me to begin. You should start by seeing what they have given us.”

“Of course, Priscille,” said Dorian obediently, but he made no move towards the workbench or supplies. He only stood, looking towards the empty dais with an unreadable expression. When he realized that Luna and Hermione were watching him and waiting, he smiled awkwardly. “My apologies,” he said, “this is still very strange. I barely know where to begin. And this place, it is so different from when I began the first time.”

“Is it?,” said Luna, looking surprised. “I was just thinking that this room doesn’t seem any different, or any... kinder, without the archway. It’s still so cold. Sort of achingly empty.” She nodded upwards, and they all looked out at the rows of bleachers that surrounded them, ranks and ranks rising up to the dark walls. Hermione tried to banish thoughts of a Roman coliseum, where people came to watch others get torn apart.

Dorian had raised his eyebrows at Luna. “You’re right,” he said. “Emptiness is a good word for it. That is part of what I mean, though. I did not build these stone rings,” he frowned, “and I do not like them. Do you know who did?”

Luna looked at him with wide eyes. “We had thought they might have been built separately, but we weren’t sure. We aren’t certain of their origin, but _I_ ,” she said very earnestly, “think it was probably a _cult_.”

Priscilla snorted softly from her seat on the bleacher, and Hermione refrained from wincing with difficulty. Oh, Luna. Dorian, however, was nodding eagerly. “I agree,” he said. “These seats are for watching, but not for celebrating. I always knew that my Veil would–well, it could not have been used for any joyous place, but this is so... spectacular. So unprivate. I am surprised that your Ministry has been able to keep it so safe.”

“For the past few centuries, at least,” said Luna. “The Ministry can be quite good at keeping secrets. What I want to know is what the cult was doing in this space, since it obviously didn’t send anyone through the Veil.”

Dorian looked around at the bleachers again, somberly, and at the empty slab where the archway had stood. His wide eyes seemed to take in the ghosts of the horrors that this Hall of Death could have witnessed. “To be frank,” he said, “that is something that I do not wish to know.” 

Hermione was rather inclined to agree.

Seeming to shake himself out of his hesitation, Dorian now squared his shoulders and headed over to the shelf beside the workbench, from which he pulled several bottles and jars. When he realized that Hermione and Luna had followed him over, he stopped and looked at them questioningly.

“Is there anything we can help you with?” asked Hermione. “We’ve been assigned to this project today.”

Dorian looked at a loss. “I… perhaps you can help me inventory ingredients? I must begin by making a potion. It is… not very complicated. At least, what I can allow others to help with.” He looked a little bit apologetic, and added, “You are welcome to watch and ask questions. I only mean that I cannot direct someone else to do many things that must be done.” He seemed to be struggling to articulate what he wanted to say, and he seemed relieved when Hermione and Luna only nodded encouragingly.

“Whatever you need,” said Luna.

Hermione got out some parchment, and she and Luna began a chart of all the ingredients that had been provided, asking Dorian from time to time about how he would like them categorized. They quickly grew distracted, however, when he pulled out his wand and began muttering over a collection of roots on the table. His wand was unusual–extremely dark wood, whip-thin, and wrapped at the base in what seemed to be elaborate coils of silverwork. There was something about it that was alien, and enchanting.

Dorian, who seemed a little nervous when he realized that Hermione and Luna were watching him again, apparently realized what had caught their attention after a moment, for he held out the wand towards them. “My treasure,” he said. “I crafted it. At least,” he looked suddenly perturbed, “I… think I did. I hope that was not one of the Veil’s dreams. It is… very dear to me. You can see, if you wish.”

Luna, who was looking at the wand with rapture, delicately accepted it from him. When he let go of it, she gasped. “I can feel its magic,” she said, “but it’s so… strange. It’s like it’s–tired? Or maybe sad. What material is its core?”

Dorian was looking at her with surprise, his brow furrowed. “It is a hair,” he admitted after a moment, “from the tail of a thestral.”

Luna looked back at him solemnly, and nodded a little, as if that made all the sense in the world.

She handed the wand to Hermione next, who was unsurprised to feel nothing from it. This magic, if she had to guess, felt no special kinship to her at all. She was fascinated, though, by the exquisite detail of the silver hilt, which almost looked like a miniature plant that had grown up around the base of the wand. “You said you crafted this?” she asked Dorian, impressed.

He tilted his head to the side. “The wand,” he admitted, “I made, but not the hilt. The hilt is an heirloom. It has been with our family for centuries, from our homeland, before even the Romans.”

Priscilla, who had finally let Haunt go, joined them at the workbench. “It is one of our family’s prizes,” she agreed. “The oldest almost of all. My wand is the only thing older that we have.” She sounded proud, and she pulled a very pale wand from her sleeve to show them.

Hermione’s eyes widened, and she and Luna both leaned closer in spite of themselves. This was a strange wand. Smooth, and white, and almost… translucent?

“What kind of wood is it made of?” Hermione asked, absolutely perplexed.

Priscilla raised an eyebrow. “It is not wood,” she said, as if this were obvious. “It is bone.”

Hermione frowned. “How is that possible? Is–what’s in its core?”

“It has no core,” said Priscilla. “It is only bone.”

“That’s… interesting,” Hermione managed, after a moment. “What kind of bone is it?” she asked. She was thinking back to things Harry had told her about the graveyard where Cedric had died, and bones used in the dark magic there. She very much hoped the wand was not human.

“I do not know what kind of bone it is,” Priscilla said. Her tone implied that this was an irrelevant kind of question to ask.

“I think,” said Dorian, “that it is probably _dragon_.” There was a certain boyish enthusiasm to his emphasis, and he flushed a little when Priscilla shot him a look. “Though I cannot be sure, of course,” he added, “as I haven’t wanted to damage it by testing it. Especially since it will be needed for our project. Speaking of which,” he looked at Priscilla, and his voice trailed off. She was looking back at him with a kind of challenge in her eyes. His expression had stilled and grown somber. “Are you ready?” he asked her, in a softer voice. “I cannot begin the potion without…”

Priscilla nodded shortly. “Give me an empty bottle,” she said, and Dorian hurried to fetch one from the table. Priscilla took a deep breath, and then she looked at Luna and Hermione with a certain annoyance. “Could you step further away, please?” she said. “I must concentrate.”

They shuffled back, and once they were a solid few yards away, Priscilla lifted her wand. She began a low-voiced, monotonous kind of chant, using words that Hermione did not recognize at all when she managed to hear them. They were soft and guttural, with a strange rhythm. The end of Priscilla’s wand began to glow with a cool light, like the moon, and she dragged it across each of her wrists, her belly, and finally her face beneath each of her eyes, leaving a pale after-image in its wake. Dorian, who had been hovering silently a few strides away, held out a small glass bottle, and she took it without looking at him. Her expression, quite suddenly, was one of barely contained anguish. Her shoulders crumpled, slowly, and she hunched over the bottle. Seemingly unable to stop herself, she then sank to her knees, so that she was crouched on the floor. Dorian stood beside her, waiting and still, his expression melted away to a stoic mask. With shaking hands, Priscilla lifted the bottle to her face just as a tear slipped down her cheek. She caught it in the bottle.

Hermione and Luna were watching, transfixed, when Dorian stepped over to block their view. “Please,” he said, “we should give her the respect of turning our attention elsewhere. This will take her a time to finish.” He looked very sad, now, and Hermione and Luna immediately nodded, agreeing to his request. Luna even reached a hand out and touched his arm, her face filling with sadness too.

They headed back over to the workbench, and Hermione was left with a feeling of distinct uneasiness. What sort of potion required _tears_? She decided to pry.

“Dorian,” she said, “may I ask what it was that Priscilla did before she started crying? That glowing spell?”

Dorian frowned. “I am not sure that it has a name,” he said, “but she was… helping herself to remember. The tears for this potion, they must come from a place of,” he seemed to search for the word, and settled on, “...truth. Truth of the heart.”

“Is that… a kind of love magic, then?” asked Luna, quietly. “A truth of the heart?”

Dorian blinked at her. “I am not sure what you mean by ‘love magic,’” he said slowly, “but it is not unrelated to love. You could call it that. There is certainly,” and he seemed oddly grave as he said it, “great love in Priscille’s heart.”

...

Hermione Granger was never one to ignore a tool at her disposal, no matter how unorthodox, and so it was that she found herself at home that evening preparing to have not just Luna, but both of the Delacs over for dinner. The amount of emotion that Dorian and Priscilla clearly attached to their work on the Veil had made Hermione decide that the best way of getting information was probably going to be by befriending them. Or, at least, by doing her best to seem like she was. She still hadn’t decided whether she thought they were the type of people she’d want to be real friends with.

To camouflage her intentions a bit, she had also invited George Weasley. They hadn’t seen him in several weeks, and Hermione knew that Ron and Ginny worried a lot about him whenever he failed to check in for a while. Even when he had recovered from his first overwhelming grief over Fred’s death, George had never fully regained his sparkle. While he was still a generally warm and funny man, his work and his demeanor had taken on an edge of sobriety–even of grimness–that would have been hard to conceive when he was one half of the Weasley twins. He had been steering Weasley Wizard Wheezes more strongly into its defensive magic direction, and Hermione had a private theory that he was eventually going to sell the joke business entirely, or at least take more of a backseat role. George still liked jokes, and even liked them a lot. But his creative energy seemed now to be funneled far more often into warding amulets and improved sneakoscopes, and far less often into candy and things that exploded. Hermione found herself less satisfied by the change than she might once have been. It would have been better to see less focus from Ron’s older brother, in favor of more joy.

Still, George retained his eternal social charm, and it would be good not just to see him, but to have him there to set the Delacs at their ease. Not even a bone wand could weird out George Weasley.

There was not much Hermione could do to prepare beyond what she had done in setting the evening up, so once she had confirmed the plans with Kreacher and made sure that he didn’t need help–she got almost an eye roll in response to this–she headed upstairs to the library to fret over the final setup there. The library had started its life as a sitting room–a “drawing room,” according to Kreacher–until Hermione covered its walls with bookshelves, and it was still where they sat with visitors.

Hermione entered the library to find Harry and Sirius working on their ongoing game of wizard’s chess. Without Ron around, it seemed to be progressing very slowly. After observing this behavior for a few evenings, Hermione had concluded that this was because Harry and Sirius kept getting caught up in conversation tangents and forgetting that they were playing until one of the pieces started to yell at them. It warmed Hermione’s heart to see Harry so quietly happy being in Sirius’s presence. To see both of them so quietly happy, really.

“How’s the game going?” Hermione asked them, when they registered her presence and smiled at her. The question wiped the smile from Sirius’s face, and he glowered across the table at Harry.

“This smug idiot,” he began, as Harry grinned with, indeed, a great deal of smugness, “is very slowly and carefully destroying me. And I think the pieces like him better.”

“Wonder why,” muttered a bishop from near his elbow.

“Put a cork in it,” said Sirius to the piece, “or I’ll send you in next.” He looked up at Hermione, and with a hint of desperation, asked, “I don’t suppose you have any advice? Harry claims that Ron is the master of this game.”

“Ron definitely is,” said Hermione, “but I’m rubbish, which is why I don’t usually play. I can see if anything occurs to me, though.” She sat down beside Sirius on the couch opposite Harry’s, and looked down at the pieces attentively. One of them shook its fist at her. It seemed to be on Sirius’s team, which didn’t bode well. Hermione tried to process the game, hoping she could offer some advice, but she was distracted. She was very conscious that Sirius’s knee was touching hers, and that his elbow brushed her arm as he leaned forward to look at the pieces with her. Merlin, what was _wrong_ with her brain? She probably shouldn’t have sat so close.

“Um,” she said, intelligently. “This does look pretty grim, Sirius.” He seemed to be down to five pieces, which were clustered in one corner of the board. The king was leaning wearily on his tiny black sword, and the others seemed to have decided at this point to sit down on the board and rest. As silence stretched for a moment, Harry’s pieces began hitting their shields with their spears, building up an ominous rhythm. Sirius sighed.

Interrupting the faceoff, the door from the library to the potions lab–formerly a bedroom, which the Blacks had apparently had an endless supply of–swung open, and Ginny walked in, bearing a tray of glasses. “Anybody need a drink?” she asked cheerfully. She had started keeping a household bar in the lab, claiming that some of the cauldrons were excellent for brewing syrups and mulled wines. Hermione was dubious, but Ginny had pointed out that Hermione could try mixing potions with the different liquids to make them more palatable, and Hermione had been too intrigued to resist.

“Sirius,” suggested Harry, “could probably use a drink, and I’d like one as well.” He smiled at Ginny, with a hint of a smirk.

“Winning again, huh?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m shocked.”

Sirius just crossed his arms and leaned back, the better to glower at them both. This also had the effect of bringing the entirety of his upper arm into contact with Hermione’s. Which had the effect of making Hermione, at any rate, very much need a drink.

She had just claimed one from Ginny when the doorbell rang downstairs. “I’ll get it!” announced Hermione, shooting to her feet, and she hurried out the door and was clattering down the stairs before she wondered whether that had seemed awkward. Drat.

She opened the door to a pale but smiling George Weasley. George tended to be prompt these days. Hermione stepped forward, and he returned her hug warmly. “Hello, ‘Mione,” he said. “I trust my siblings haven’t been giving you too much trouble since I last saw you.”

“Only typical amounts,” said Hermione. “Ginny’s the one to watch, really, but we already knew that.”

“She was always a problem child,” agreed George. “It’s a wonder that Harry hasn’t cottoned on. Too many freckles, evil glint to the beady eyes…”

“You’d better not be talking about me,” said a voice from the landing above them, and Ginny poked her head out over the stairs. “Hey, brother,” she added, smiling at George. 

“Hey, sister,” he said, smiling back. “Don’t be paranoid. I was clearly talking about Kreacher.”

“I don’t know, George,” said Ginny, as she came around the banister and started down towards them. “I’ve always been pretty fond of Kreacher’s freckles. I think they add to his air of youthful charm.”

George narrowed his eyes consideringly. “You make,” he said, “a compelling point.” Hermione was trying very hard not to be the only person laughing as George’s deadpan expression faced off against Ginny’s.

“Is that George?” said Harry’s voice from the landing, and he and Sirius rounded the banister as well.

George dropped his thoughtful stance and grinned up the stairs with genuine enthusiasm. “Sirius Black,” he said, “If you aren’t a sight for sore eyes.”

He and Sirius greeted each other warmly, and George was supplied with one of Ginny’s drinks as Hermione shepherded the lot of them back up to the library.

They settled back onto the couches, the chess game–judging by Sirius’s determined failure to even glance in its direction–apparently having been set aside. Hermione was a little bit relieved that George had sat down next to Sirius before Hermione could decide whether she was expected to go back to her spot or not. She perched on the opposite couch next to Ginny.

“So, Sirius,” said George, “how’s life as a free man treating you?”

“Oh, beautifully,” said Sirius, his smile a bit dark. “I can now witness in _person_ how frightened of me people are. Does wonders for getting quick service when I’m shopping, I’ll tell you that.”

“I’ll bet,” said George. “If your name isn’t enough, I recommend muttering to yourself and pulling out your wand. Maybe offering a few anecdotes from Azkaban, with excessive friendliness.” Sirius barked a laugh. “Seriously, though,” George added, “I’d bet it will wear off. You’re not exciting news anymore, they’ll all get bored and forget to be frightened once you’ve been back for long enough. Any plans for what you’ll do now, though? Back to being an Auror?”

Sirius tilted his head. “Harry would like that,”–Harry nodded vigorously–“but I don’t think so, actually. It feels too… stuck in the past, for me. War, forever. I’d like to do something new, get on with being a person. I was thinking about going abroad…” Hermione’s heart sank sickeningly for a moment–she hadn’t heard about this idea–but to her relief, Sirius continued, “…but that doesn’t seem right either. I went abroad right after Azkaban, and I spent the whole time wishing I could be back, close to Harry, and the rest of you lot. At least,” with a hint of a grin, “the whole time that I was sober. At any rate, I think I’m sticking around. After all, somebody’s got to teach Teddy to ride a motorcycle.” Harry looked alarmed, and Ginny patted his knee quellingly. “Mostly,” continued Sirius, “I feel goddamn ready to…” he searched for the right word. “…make things. Build something, for a change, instead of blowing things up.”

Hermione found herself nodding in warm approval, and Sirius blinked at her, then smiled.

George was looking uncharacteristically somber, and he nodded at Sirius too. “I can… sympathize with that. I don’t suppose you like building _physical_ things? You were always shifty about it when I’ve asked you before, but how much did you have to do with making the Marauders’ Map?”

“Your mother made me promise not to tell you anything while you were still at Hogwarts,” said Sirius, prompting an exchange of eye rolls between Ginny and George, “but I’d obviously be happy to tell you anything you want, now. To be honest, it was mostly me and Remus. James helped with all the ideas and kept poking us into action, but he wasn’t as interested in transfiguration or charms as we were, so he left most of the constructing up to us. His forte was dueling spellwork. Peter,” a look of disgust crossed his face, even now, “mostly gathered data and supplies. Useful, since I, for one, would have been far too lazy.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in transfiguration and charms!” blurted Hermione in a tone of surprise, and then promptly turned pink. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She’d known Sirius was very smart, but she’d somehow assumed that he would have preferred subjects that were more… macho. Like Defense Against the Dark Arts, or… er, Defense Against the Dark Arts. She was a little embarrassed that she’d been pigeonholing him so narrowly.

Sirius raised an amused eyebrow at her. “How did you think I built my motorcycle? They don’t fly on their own, you know.” Hermione’s blush deepened, and she didn’t dignify Sirius’s quip with a response, which only made him grin. Hermione could feel Ginny looking at her with amusement as well. Oh, Merlin.

George’s eyes were gleaming, and he had sat up straighter as Sirius talked. “Sirius,” he said, “I could really use someone like you at the shop, if you’re interested. How would you feel about a business in inventing defensive magical objects? That department’s been expanding so much that I’ve been thinking about taking on a new partner anyway–Lee’s great, but he leans more towards the jokes end. And variations on the Map alone would have incredible security uses.”

“That… doesn’t sound half bad,” said Sirius, consideringly. “At any rate, I’d be delighted to come in and show you some of what I did for the Map. Give me something useful to do other than thinking up ways to bother Kreacher without Hermione catching wind, which was about what I was looking at for my spare time.”

“What?” said Hermione, sharply.

“Hm?” said Sirius, as if he wasn’t sure what she was asking about. Hermione gaped at him, and then crossed her arms angrily. Harry had started to snicker but quickly stifled his laughter when Hermione transferred her death glare to him.

Fortunately, the doorbell downstairs chose that moment to ring, saving the others from Hermione’s impending ire. Everyone stood up and started towards the door to meet the guests, and when Hermione pointed a menacing finger at Sirius on the way out–they would have _words_ later on this topic–the man had the audacity to wink at her.

Which made her stupid heart flutter a little. Dear lord, Sirius Black was a _problem_. She shoved the thoughts aside, to be dealt with later. Tonight, she had a job to do.

She hurried down the steps to reach the door before the others, and she opened it to admit Luna and the Delacs. Or rather, Priscilla Delac, who swept in with a certain grandeur and took Hermione’s hand for a few seconds too long–“This,” she explained, quite seriously, “I have been told is the method of greeting in your time,”–before casting an appraising look around the front hall. Luna and Dorian were still standing out on the dark steps, apparently so caught up in earnest conversation that they had not noticed the door opening.

“Dorian!” said Priscilla, and her brother jumped a little, pulling something from his face and handing it to Luna before hurrying in. As Luna followed him through the door, Hermione saw that she was holding a pair of Spectrespecs. In retrospect, Hermione reflected, Luna might not have been the best person to put in charge of orienting the Delacs to the modern world.

Hermione turned, gesturing at the others. “Priscilla and Dorian, I’d like you to meet my friends: George Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter, and-”

“Sirius Black,” said Priscilla. “We have, of course, already met.” She stepped towards Sirius and extended her hand, her expression suddenly intent. Dorian looked up with interest at her words, and when he looked properly at Sirius, his eyes widened.

“Ah, yes,” said Hermione hastily, “you would have met at the Ministry.” She shot Priscilla a look.

“My brother and I work with Hermione and Luna,” Priscilla agreed smoothly, giving Hermione a faint nod. She and Dorian had been briefed about the confidentiality of all specific details relating to the Department and the Veil. They knew who Sirius was, because they had apparently seen him inside the Veil and asked about him afterwards, but Sirius would have no way of knowing who they were.

Sirius frowned, looking confused, but he shook Priscilla’s proffered hand politely. Priscilla did what she had done with Hermione, holding his hand for a few seconds too long. Hermione liked it even less the second time.

After introductions all around, they all proceeded into the dining room, where Kreacher had laid out a very elegant meal indeed. Hermione had carefully planned a seating arrangement beforehand. Before she could say anything, however, Dorian and Luna had settled into seats next to each other–apparently still talking about the Spectrespecs, which Dorian was holding again–and Priscilla had taken the seat beside Sirius, throwing Hermione’s whole arrangement into disarray. She quashed a flash of deep annoyance, and then almost jumped when Ginny elbowed her. When Hermione looked at her, Ginny shot a deliberate glance at Luna and Dorian, her eyes dancing, and waggled her eyebrows at Hermione a little bit suggestively. Hermione looked at the two of them again, consideringly. They did seem to be hitting it off marvelously, smiling as they talked. Hermione hadn’t considered the possibility that Luna might be trying to be–well, rather more than helpful to the Delacs. As a rule, Luna tended to be mournfully, privately confused by romance, when she floated into any contact with it at all. Luna’s romantic life–or rather, her lack thereof–had been a pet project of Hermione’s and Ginny’s for a while now. This, reflected Hermione, could _certainly_ complicate matters.

Once they had all settled into seats–Hermione managing to sit where she could at least hear both of the Delacs properly–they actually had quite a nice meal together. George performed as well as expected, and he and Ginny fired off jokes that seemed to tickle Dorian immensely and even had Priscilla grinning. Luna continued to monopolize a lot of Dorian’s conversation. There was one moment, in the middle of the meal, when she tried to use a spoon to demonstrate something, wiggling it sinuously through the air, and accidentally dropped it into her bowl, splattering soup onto Harry, herself, and Dorian. The whole table fell silent, and Luna looked around at them all with very wide eyes. “That,” she said to Dorian after a moment, confidingly, “was not part of the flight pattern I was showing you.” Dorian blinked at her, and then began to laugh delightedly. Luna turned pink, which she almost never did, and Ginny met Hermione’s eyes again, smirking, before she vanished the splattered soup with a flick of her wand.

Priscilla spent most of the meal conversing with Sirius and with George, who was sitting across from her and seemed, to Hermione’s eye, to be trying and failing to get a read on the medieval witch. He knew that Priscilla wasn’t allowed to talk about the Department of Mysteries, so they were talking about Hogwarts, which Priscilla seemed curious about. Priscilla had implied, a little vaguely, that she had gone to a wizarding school far away in Eastern Europe, which would account for the hint of an unplaceable accent that seeped through the translation amulets. George had seemed to readily accept this information at face value. Hermione was trying to gauge Sirius’s reaction as well, but the second or third time she had glanced over, she had found him looking directly at her. Panicked, she’d frozen and held his gaze for a moment before looking away. She hoped she wasn’t flushed. His expression had been unreadable, and she didn’t have the courage to look back to keep checking.

As the meal drew to a close, Ginny leaned over to Harry and whispered something in his ear. He nodded, and stood up, clinking his glass with his spoon, a little bit theatrically. He smiled when everybody looked at him. “Right,” he said. “I’ve been commanded by Ginny to inform you all that Hermione’s birthday is this Sunday, and that we’d like to invite you all to a little party we’re having the night before, if you’re free.” Hermione blinked–this was news to her–and looked at Ginny, who grinned. She knew that Hermione was generally not very big on surprises, which was probably why this was not _technically_ a surprise party. And why she had made Harry announce it, spreading out the blame. “We’re meeting for dinner at the Leaky Cauldron, and then we’re going out in Diagon Alley-”

“To _dance_ ,” supplied Ginny, enthusiastically.

“-to dance,” agreed Harry, somewhat less enthusiastically. “And Ron will be back–that’s Ginny and George’s brother,” he explained to the Delacs, “and Hermione’s boyfriend. Anyway, you’re all very welcome to come. It should be a fun night.”

Hermione, feeling a hint of trepidation, certainly hoped so.


	9. A Birthday, and Unquiet Sadness

Chapter 9

The next day at work was bizarre, as Priscilla seemed to have decided that the previous night’s events meant that they were all friends now. Which, Hermione reminded herself, was what she had theoretically wanted.

“I wanted to thank you,” Priscilla said when Hermione first arrived, clasping Hermione’s hand in her typical, slightly overlong way. “Dorian and I had a wonderful time last night. Your friends are a delight.”

“I–er, thank you,” said Hermione. “You’re most welcome.” She couldn’t exactly argue with that.

“It was particularly interesting,” she said, “to talk with Monsieur Weasley and Monsieur Black,” she said. “Monsieur Weasley, his brother is your…” she searched for the word. “Your lover?”

Hermione turned pink. “Um, sort of. Yes. We call it a ‘boyfriend,’ these days.”

Priscilla nodded. “You are to be married, then? With Mademoiselle Weasley in the setup, you will then all be family, no?”

Hermione was hastily shaking her head. “Ron and I are _not_ going to be married. Or at least,” she added when Priscilla raised her eyebrows, “not any time soon. We’ve never even thought about it. That’s not… standard, at our age.” She thought of Harry’s parents. “At least, not necessarily. Harry and Ginny aren’t necessarily getting married either. And Sirius isn’t actually related to Harry, so we still wouldn’t _all_ be family…” Hermione stopped, feeling pedantic, and tried to smile at Priscilla to show that she wasn’t offended. Not really.

Priscilla was blinking in mild confusion. “I am sorry,” she said. “Your customs are strange. I was only thinking you would want to make such an excellent alliance permanent. In my time, it is rare to find so much warmth in such a setup. And you say Monsieur Black is _not_ related to Monsieur Potter? I thought you said he was his-” she stumbled, looking for the right word.

“His godfather,” supplied Hermione. “It means a kind of honorary father. It’s because Sirius was very close friends with Harry’s parents, and was supposed to be the one to raise Harry when they died.”

Priscilla’s eyes widened. “I take it that he did not, though? Why?” She looked genuinely curious, and her tone had softened a little as she realized the delicacy of the topics she was asking about.

“Sirius spent… a long time in Azkaban. The wizard prison in our time. He was locked up because the Ministry believed he had committed a crime. Though his name has finally been cleared, now.”

“Only recently?” said Priscilla. “That… explains much about him.”

Hermione bridled a little bit at Priscilla’s tone. Priscilla didn’t know anything about Sirius. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Priscilla tilted her head, considering, and gave Hermione a sideways look. “There is something… sad, that I noticed. About Monsieur Black. Also about Monsieur Weasley. I... have a certain sympathy for this quality. Dorian has it. You have it, too. It is a something that tells me I can talk to you, and that you will hear me.” She looked at Hermione with an oddly shy smile, and Hermione was taken aback. There was something disarming about the open look that Priscilla was now giving her, and even something likeable. She felt a built guilty for how she had been thinking about the medieval witch, all of a sudden.

“There might,” she finally admitted, “be something to that, as far as Sirius and George are concerned. I don’t know why you think I’m sad, though. Luna, for instance,” and she nodded over to where Luna and Dorian were busy at the work station, “is much quieter than I am.”

Priscilla seemed to realize how long she had been keeping Hermione near the doorway with her questions when she saw Luna and Dorian working, and she gestured for Hermione to come down the bleachers to her own table. “Would you mind working here with me?” she said. “I must mind this potion, but it is nice to be speaking with someone.” She smiled again, and Hermione was struck, again, by how gentle the expression was.

“Sure,” said Hermione, walking down behind Priscilla. When they reached the table, she pulled a notebook out of her bag and set up her quill. “May I ask what you’re doing more specifically?”

“Thickening the potion,” said Priscilla, a little vaguely. “I only do as Dorian tells me, so you must ask him if you wish to know why.” She stirred the cauldron beside the desk with a long spoon for a few moments, and Hermione watched silently. It was almost meditative.

“I would not,” Priscilla finally said, quietly, as if they had never abandoned the topic, “say that Luna is sad. She is quiet. She keeps her thoughts in her head. That is different.” She was addressing herself almost more to the cauldron than to Hermione, perhaps because it was easier to express herself that way. Hermione listened, afraid to pop whatever bubble was giving her this morning’s sudden window into Priscilla’s thinking. “The sadness that I mean,” continued Priscilla, “It is something about the energy behind the times you are not being quiet. The kind of force it is that propels you to _do_. There is a healthy doing, and then there is a kind of doing that is done to hold someone back from the brink. Talking to keep yourself from thinking. Doing to keep yourself from talking.” She stirred the pot for a few more moments, and then gave Hermione a smile, more bitter than the ones before. There was such intelligence in her dark eyes, and emotion lurking just beneath the surface. Hermione thought she could understand why Dorian seemed to do everything his sister told him to. “This sadness,” Priscilla added, “I see in Mr. Weasley and Mr. Black, not because of how they are quiet, but because of how they are not.” And then she shrugged a little bit theatrically, as if to say that that was all she had wanted to convey.

She still watched Hermione, though, as she stirred the potion, with an air almost of hunger to her expression. Clearly, she was hoping for some response, though Hermione scarcely knew what to say. It was all certainly a very perceptive observation on Priscilla’s part, but an odd thing to say after a dinner party. And why deal in such deeply vulnerable concepts, only a few days after meeting her? What could Priscilla want?

It occurred to Hermione then, with the kind of obviousness that made her want to kick herself, that Priscilla might be expected to be quite lonely. Desperately lonely, in fact. She had spent hundreds of years with no one but Dorian as a real companion, and now Dorian was fast on his way to spending more time with Luna than with Priscilla. If Ginny’s intuition was anything to go by.

With a renewed gentleness, then, Hermione smiled at Priscilla, and answered. “I have to admit,” she said, “that I think you’re probably right about Sirius and George. They’ve lost a lot of people, quite recently. We were all in a war, you see, that ended only a couple of years ago. Sirius didn’t find out how many of his… friends had died, until he got out of the Veil with you and Dorian. So it’s all very fresh for him. And George–George lost his twin brother in the war. They were very close. I don’t think he’s ever been… back to his normal self.”

Priscilla’s eyes were wide and dark as she looked at Hermione. “There is no normal self,” she said, “when you have lost someone so close to yourself. How can there be? Part of your self is gone. I understand this feeling.”

“Have… have you lost somebody?” asked Hermione. That seemed to be what Priscilla was skirting around, as odd and emotional as her approach was. All Hermione could do was offer sympathy.

At these words, however, Priscilla stiffened, and it was like a mask had come down. The edge of haughtiness that had been absent for their past few minutes of earnest conversation reappeared. It settled over her like a mantle. The smile she gave Hermione now was a different kind entirely from her shy look earlier; it was cynical, knowing, adult. “Hermione,” she said, in a voice of mild amusement, “It would be better to ask if there is anybody I have _not_ lost. I am left with only Dorian. And even he… well, the Veil was a long time. Neither of us is the person we were. Not really. So yes. You could say that I have lost someone.”

Hermione felt disoriented by the sudden coldness, and a little bit upset. It was as if Priscilla had offered her a hand, and then slapped her. “I’m sorry,” she said, “That was a stupid question. I only meant, from what you said about–never mind. I’m sorry I said it that way.” She had turned red, and for some reason the fact that Priscilla’s face had only settled back into tranquility made her feel more guilty. What had she done wrong? She settled for turning to her notebook and scribbling some disorganized thoughts, giving them both time to recover. She hoped that that had not been a fatal blunder. She had been getting so much closer, today, to asking Priscilla about some of the actually crucial details that she and Dorian had yet to reveal about the Veil.

After several minutes, Priscilla continued in her gentle tone of before, again as if nothing had interrupted their conversation’s flow. Hermione wondered sometimes if the Delacs’ odd moments were due to their time in the Veil or to their natural selves. “And you,” said Priscilla, pausing her work and catching Hermione’s eyes with her own dark ones. “I have said that you have seemed sad to me too, and you have not talked about this. Have you lost somebody, Hermione?” Her voice was quiet.

To Hermione, this felt like a test, and she wondered why she wanted to pass it so much. Almost in spite of herself, she admitted, “You could say that I have. It’s why I work here, actually. I… my parents’ memories were destroyed during the war, and they are living as other people now, with the false memories I gave them. I’m trying to figure out how to… bring them back.”

Priscilla was looking at her with an unusual intensity. “That is good,” she said, firmly, “That you do not give up, when you have lost your parents. You are a good witch, Hermione Granger. I am glad that you are working with us.” And with that, she turned back to her potion, apparently feeling that their conversation was complete.

Well then. With a helpless little glow of pride, Hermione settled in with her notes, and she and Priscilla worked in companionable silence through most of the morning.

When Dorian and Luna left to go fetch lunch, Hermione decided that it might be the right moment for her to test the waters once more. There were questions that Fenshaw had assigned her to answer, the last time they checked in, and Hermione had rarely seen the medieval witch this… relaxed.

“Priscilla,” said Hermione, “I’ve been wondering something.”

“Yes?” said Priscilla, looking up from her cutting board. Her expression was inviting.

“The other day,” said Hermione, “when we were interviewing you and Dorian at St. Mungo’s, just after you’d woken up. Dorian said that he couldn’t remember how to build the Veil. What… what happened? Did his memory come back?”

Priscilla shook her head, smiling kindly, and Hermione realized after a moment that she probably though that Hermione was looking for some trick to help with her parents’ memories. Well, if Priscilla thought that Hermione’s motives were purely personal, all the better.

“He did not regain his memory,” said Priscilla, “because he had never lost it. There is much that has become… fogged, from our time in the Veil, but I doubt very much that the creation of the Veil itself was one for Dorian. No. He lied during the interview, because he was not sure that he wanted to reveal his secrets.” She said this as if it were the most logical thing Dorian could have done. “He changed his mind,” she added, “when I convinced him that it would be good for us to rebuild our project. It will help your Ministry, which is in charge in this place. And it will be… a second chance.”

Hermione was trying very hard to look as if these revelations were only casually interesting details. “Is that… does he want a second chance because of what happened the first time? To you? Dorian said that he had–well, that he had pushed you through the Veil.” Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper, in spite of herself. “Have you… have you forgiven him for that?”

Priscilla was looking at her incredulously. “Forgive? Hermione, he jumped in right after me, trying to get me back. We spent _centuries_ living with no one but each other. There was never anything to forgive. It was an accident that destroyed us both, and he has long since done his penance. You _mustn’t_ ,” and her voice would have been fierce, if there hadn’t been an almost tearful edge to her earnestness, “think of Dorian this way. He has been my dearest friend.”

She had taken Hermione’s arm as she said this, her grip tightening with a certain desperation, and Hermione found herself patting Priscilla’s hands consolingly, saying once more how sorry she was to have asked that way.

She was thinking, as she did so, about Ariana Dumbledore. Albus had made a terrible mistake that killed his sister, and the damage that he had caused to a person he loved had shaped him for the rest of his life. Hermione only hoped that Dorian’s burden was less heavy. Priscilla, after all, was here: alive and well. 

When Priscilla seemed calmer, Hermione asked her final question. “Priscilla,” she said, “if what happened was all an accident… why did you and Dorian build the Veil in the first place? What was it for?”

Priscilla opened her mouth, and then closed it, frowning. Her eyes focused on something to Hermione’s side, and her expression grew relieved just as Hermione realized that someone was standing right behind her.

She turned in her seat, and Dorian looked down at her. His pale eyes, usually so vague, were focused on her now with piercing clarity. “You wish to know why we built the Veil? The answer is simple, and the same reason that we do so now.” Luna had followed him over, and he looked at her eagerly. “You, Luna, must understand. You were in Ravenclaw House, were you not? George told me of this House. Our mission–my mission–is… the same.” He hesitated, meeting Priscilla’s eyes, but she nodded, urging him onwards. Dorian spread his arms wide, taking in the platform, the dark auditorium, and perhaps the Department itself. “Knowledge,” he said, with the intonation of a prophet, or a priest. His face was alight. “Always, Hermione, knowledge. For what greater realm of the unknown could there be–what undiscovered country more strange, or more terrible–in which to seek new magic, than… death?”

As she watched him, Priscilla smiled.

…

“Ginny Weasley,” said Hermione, with all the venom she could muster under the circumstances, “I am _not_ going to forgive you for this.”

Hermione’s friends–her family, really–who were gathered around the table had all collapsed with laughter. Or at least, Hermione assumed they had, from the various chortles and choking sounds that she could hear. She was currently curled up in her seat, hiding her head against her knees, so she couldn’t check that it was absolutely everybody. But it might be worse, in a way, if it wasn’t.

On the table in front of her, spinning up out of its cheerful wrapping paper and hovering in the air, was a lurid pink gift basket bearing the words–the _very bright_ words–“Sorcerous Sensuality Pack: Unleash your Intimate, Magical Self.” The box very clearly contained an instructional book, various… supplies… and… tools. _Visible_ tools. Ginny’s note on the outside of the wrapped gift had read, _From one witch to another: because long distance is tough._

It was, thank Merlin, Ron who rescued Hermione. Given that she considered this situation partially his fault–his _trip_ had landed her in it, not to mention the fact that Ginny was _his_ sister–it seemed only fair that he should get her out of it. “Alright,” he said lightly, “thanks a bunch, Ginny. I’m sure Hermione will appreciate a whole lot how thoughtful this is. In several years, when she’s found some Fiend Fire to feed… it… to. And has finished living under a rock.” The chuckles this earned from around the table did not make Hermione feel any better. In fact, her shame burned a little bit hotter for another moment, and she wished that Ron hadn’t said… quite that. She wasn’t a prude, after all. Just _embarrassed_. But when she tentatively peeked out from between her fingers, she forgave Ron, for the moment: the offending package was gone. Ron had squirrelled it away into her Extended purse with the rest of her gifts.

When she worked up the courage to glance around the table, most everybody had also managed to wipe the majority of the amusement from their faces. Mrs. Weasley seemed to have found the whole thing especially funny, and was wiping a tear of laughter from her eye with a corner of her napkin. Mr. Weasley, beside her, had covered most of his face with his hand, but there remained a twinkle suspiciously close to mirth in his eye, particularly when Mrs. Weasley looked over at him. Hermione found this uniquely off-putting. George and Andromeda both looked like they were trying very hard to maintain their straight faces, while Teddy, sitting on Sirius’s lap, had joyfully turned his hair the same shade of eye-searingly hot pink as the… package. When Hermione allowed her eyes to flit over Sirius, he was wearing what could only be described as a smirk; though, to his credit, he was now keeping his attention carefully on Teddy and trying to interest the toddler in a small, stuffed black dog, while the hubbub around the table died down. Sirius had been pushing this dog with Teddy all evening.

Luna, Hagrid, Bill, Fleur, and Neville had all managed to school their expressions into neutrality with varying degrees of success. Priscilla and Dorian both just looked confused, though Dorian with more of an edge of consternation than his sister. Which left Harry, blinking at her with heroic calm, a red-eared Ron trying and failing not to look just slightly pleased about the whole thing, and Ginny. Ginny was sprawled back in her chair, grinning at Hermione with the cheekiest expression that ever a witch had worn. Hermione looked at her with _daggers_.

Luckily for his girlfriend, Harry chose this moment to tap Hermione on the shoulder, with a certain meekness. “Um, Hermione? Perhaps you’d like to open my present next.”

Harry had gotten her a very sleek, modern-looking Self-Writing Quill, whose packaging detailed all sorts of new-fangled ways that it could be customized. This set the tone of the bulk of the rest of the presents, which tended towards the academic and the useful. Hermione was a little bit baffled by the most ornamental of the presents, which came from Luna and the Delacs. Luna had gotten Hermione a long, pale blue scarf that seemed to have some kind of life of its own–it surged up out of the box when Hermione opened it, wrapping itself around her arm.

“That’s odd,” said Luna, raising her eyebrows. “It’s supposed to move more gently, kind of flowing. It must like you.” Hermione thanked Luna, smiling, and then kept the smile plastered on her face while she tried to peel the scarf off of her arm. It clung determinedly, though not uncomfortably, and after a few moments Hermione gave up. She would deal with it later.

The Delacs’ present, meanwhile, was a small dagger on a silver chain, clearly meant to be worn around the neck. Hermione wondered if they’d consulted Luna at all, as she pulled it out of the box–perhaps it would start to sing, or do a tap dance. There seemed to be nothing outwardly remarkable about the dagger, though, until Hermione looked closer at the box and saw that it was certified as made of pure silver. Useful, then, against some dark magic, or perhaps for potion making. Surprised at how much she actually liked the gift, despite the fact that she was unlikely to ever wear it, Hermione smiled and nodded at them in thanks. The siblings exchanged a pleased look at her reaction.

Sirius’s gift, when Harry placed it in front of her from the top of the stack, was larger than many of the others, contained in a wide, shallow velvet box. Hermione tried to ignore a little flutter of nerves as she pulled it closer, and she could feel herself turning a bit pink in spite of herself. When she lifted the lid, she froze for a moment, overcome. Nestled in the box was a simple, silver pensieve, with a line of etched runes running around its edge. It probably had not been cheap–though Sirius, of course, could afford it, as the only living heir of the House of Black. But it was the thoughtfulness of it that took Hermione aback. She didn’t think she’d ever specifically mentioned to Sirius that she was working with pensieves. He had to have thought about it, and figured out that she must be, or at least that she would find one meaningful. A note resting in the center of the bowl read, _In case it helps. Happy birthday, Hermione_.

She looked up at Sirius, full of gratitude, and then just smiled, not knowing what to say. She hoped that her eyes were conveying how much this meant to her.

“Thought you could use some extra brain storage,” Sirius said, a little bit gruffly. “I think Dumbledore used to use one for the same reason. And anyway,” he waved a hand, as if to brush away any credit, “I’ve got a lot of birthdays to catch up on with you lot.”

Harry was grinning at Sirius. “You do have a knack for presents. I don’t suppose this means a new Firebolt in my future?”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You’ve gotten your Firebolt. Teddy’s next in line on that list.” He bounced his knee up and down a little bit, perhaps to emphasize the mobility of the pink-haired toddler, who shrieked delightedly and clung to Sirius’s leg. Andromeda, sitting beside Sirius, was shaking her head with mock solemnity.

Hermione ducked beside the table to place the pensieve’s box into her bag with great care. This also helped disguise the fact that she had at this point actively blushed a deep pink. She hoped that if Ron noticed, he would attribute it to all the attention she was getting, or to the expense of the gift. Her mind was being _so_ silly about this Sirius preoccupation–it wasn’t, after all, as if the gift had _meant_ anything. It was just thoughtful and well-chosen. Which, as Harry had pointed out, squared with Sirius’s track record of gifts in general, between the Firebolt and the twin mirrors she could remember him giving Harry. And it wasn’t as if she _wanted_ it to mean anything, anyway. Not really, in the rational part of her mind.

Ron, perhaps luckily, seemed to be preoccupied with his own present, which he was digging out of a bag beside his chair. It came in two parts: a small red box, and a container of French macarons, which made Hermione smile. The box, which she opened eagerly, contained a necklace bearing several small charms–a pink crystal heart, a book, and a cat. She wondered if Ron had been thinking of Crookshanks, who had died about a year ago. Hermione tried to smile at him warmly. This was thoughtful of him, if somewhat… pink. Ron looked a little bit anxious, taking in her reaction, so Hermione pulled the necklace out and made a bit of a show of clasping it around her neck. She could always take it off before they went out dancing. The better to… er, keep it safe.

The dinner soon wound down, now that the presents had been distributed. Hermione passed around the box of macarons, which earned Ron general approval. And then people were standing up, as Sirius handed Teddy to Andromeda, and Hagrid started to put on his coat. They had eaten in a private room at the Leaky Cauldron, and it sounded, from what they could hear from the main room, like it was reaching the part of a Saturday evening where things got more rowdy. Most of them were planning to head out now to dance at a place in Diagon Alley, though Hermione wasn’t sure anymore that she trusted the plan. _Ginny_ had made the plan.

“Oh, come on, Sirius,” said Harry, which drew Hermione’s attention. “Don’t be a stick in the mud, even Molly and Arthur are coming.” Sirius appeared to have pulled on his jacket and been in the process of leaving with Andromeda and Hagrid. He had stopped, though, and seemed tempted by Harry’s wheedling tone. He eyed Molly and Arthur, who were standing with George, with a faint air of trepidation. Molly, who seemed to be a bit tipsy, was leaning against Arthur, hugging his arm and smiling at everybody. George, catching Sirius’s glance, winked and wiggled his fingers in a flirtatious wave.

Sirius rolled his eyes, looking amused, but he still hesitated. “I don’t know, Harry. …I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

Hermione couldn’t restrain herself. “Come on, Sirius,” she said, trying to smile encouragingly rather than hopefully. “This can’t be any worse for your image than it’s going to be for mine. I’m already going to have to live under a rock after this–it could be your last chance to see me.”

“I am distinctly doubtful,” he said, “about this rock business.” But he walked towards them and away from the doorway, hands in the pockets of his jacket. His leather jacket. It was the kind of worn, brown leather that seemed effortlessly casual rather than punk rock. Hermione had been trying very hard not to look at this jacket since they first arrived.

“Alright,” said Ginny, from beside Hermione. “If we’re heading out soon, this means that the moment has arrived: girls bathroom check-in. I’ll grab Luna.” And she breezed off, clearly expecting Hermione to follow.

Which Hermione, giving an apologetic glance to the mildly baffled Ron, Harry, and Sirius, did.

Ginny was waiting for her by the long counter in the women’s bathroom, and as she pulled her makeup bag out of her purse, she met Hermione’s eyes in the mirror with a half-apologetic smile.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at her, and crossed her arms.

“Oh come on, Hermione,” said Ginny, “it wasn’t _that_ bad. And besides your reaction, the look on Ron’s face was beyond priceless. You have to admit, it was worth it if only to have created that reaction, as a thing that has existed in the world.” The wicked grin with which she said this was infectious, and Hermione was finding it difficult to maintain her scowl.

“Also,” said Ginny, looking at her sideways, “I got you a real present too. It’s a color-coding calendar, and I already put it up in the kitchen at home. You’ll love it.”

“Hmph,” was Hermione’s only response, but she walked over to stand beside Ginny at the counter, feeling somewhat mollified. She pulled out her makeup pouch as well, though she had stuck everything on so systematically with several charms at home that her makeup didn’t really need too much repairing. It was subtle, anyway. The main thing she had done was to tame her curls into submission, and to pin her hair up on top of her head. Ron was fond of this style, from the Yule Ball. It went with her dress, which was her favorite periwinkle blue, but short and a girly, flattering cut.

Feeling like she should improve… something, Hermione got out some lip gloss, and applied it very carefully, staring at herself in the mirror. Ginny reached an arm over, and gently extracted a wisp of curl at Hermione’s temple, so that it dangled down beside her face. When Hermione frowned and went to tuck it back, Ginny swatted mildly at her hand. “It looks great with it there, trust me.”

Hermione gave her a look, and Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Fine,” said Hermione. “You’re probably right. I don’t know why I’m bothering about it, anyway. It’s not like there’s anything new,” she gestured vaguely at her whole self, “to Ron at this point.” She felt a little bit stupid complaining to Ginny, who was looking as knockout as ever in a striped tube top and skin-tight jeans, with dangerous heels. And how on earth did she get her skin to look so flawless? Or her _neck_ to look so long?

“Oh, hush,” said Ginny. “The boy’s daft, but I think he’s pretty definitely wrapped around your little finger. Although, are you sure you want to wear, um–that?” She was looking at the necklace with the slightly cutesy little charms. “Or _that?_ ” she added, pointing at the blue scarf that Luna had given Hermione, which was coiled firmly around the length of her arm, and seemed to be vibrating just slightly. And… humming? 

Hermione winced. “No to _both_ ,” she began, but the door opened and Hermione stifled the rest of her sentence as a particularly dreamy-looking Luna wafted in. She was wearing a diaphanous green top and daffodil yellow leggings, which seemed… about right.

Ginny’s eyes immediately narrowed, and Hermione could have sworn that her nostrils flared, like those of a predator scenting its prey. “Here, Hermione,” she said, “I’ll help you with the clasp,” and she moved to stand behind Hermione and remove the necklace. Luna, apparently oblivious to the keen attention with which Ginny was watching her, stepped up to the mirror beside Hermione and began serenely clipping on a pair of bangle earrings.

“So, Luna,” said Ginny. “I haven’t caught up with you in, what–over a week now? How’s work going?”

“Hm?” said Luna. “Oh, it’s brilliant.” She smiled at Ginny.

The smile Ginny returned almost made Hermione feel sorry for Luna. “Mmhm, mmhm,” Ginny was saying. “Work is brilliant. I’m glad. Are you, uh, sure it’s _work_ that’s brilliant, Luna?”

“What do you mean?” asked Luna. She was looking at Ginny with wide, innocent eyes, but her ears had turned a delicate shade of pink.

“You see,” Ginny said, “ _I_ have been having a little hunch that _you_ might think that a specific thing is brilliant. A specific foreign wizard, in fact. Just possibly. Seeing as you seem to spend, you know, a fair amount of time talking to him. Even all your time. If I were being specific.” Ginny’s teasing was relentless, and Luna, blushing like a tomato now, turned to face her. Somehow impervious to Ginny’s merriment–which had even Hermione grinning at this point–Luna gave Ginny a bashful smile, and a kind of shrug.

“He’s… he _is_ pretty lovely,” she admitted. And then added, “I need to pee,” and popped off into one of the stalls, probably to flee Ginny’s extremely evident delight.

As soon as the stall door closed, Hermione held out her scarf-wrapped arm toward Ginny and, pointing at it, mouthed, “ _Go!_ ” Ginny seized one end of the scarf and _yanked_ , while Hermione frantically swiveled her arm around and around to unwind the cloth. It then tried to climb back and up Ginny’s arm, until Hermione, feeling inspired, pulled out a telescope that George had given her and poked the scarf with it. The scarf greedily wrapped itself around the cylinder and, as it hummed contentedly, Hermione was able to gently lower the whole thing back into her Extended purse. She was careful to tuck it far away from the box containing her new pensieve.

Ginny, as she looked at Hermione’s purse, seemed to be thinking along somewhat the same lines. “Some great gifts in the bunch, it seemed like,” she commented, nodding at the bag. “Was that a _pensieve_ that Sirius got you?”

Unable to trust that her voice not to betray her in face of the sudden question, Hermione nodded. Not _too_ enthusiastically. Like a normal person would nod.

“Sweet,” said Ginny, looking impressed.

“Yeah,” said Hermione. “Pretty, um, sweet. I can’t wait to use it for my research. It was… cool of him.” Hermione very much hoped that Ginny had meant “sweet” in the sense of “cool.” Otherwise Hermione had just called Sirius Black… sweet.

Ginny nodded encouragingly, looking slightly confused by Hermione’s reaction. Happily, Luna chose this moment to emerge from the bathroom stall, and Ginny was off again, digging for details about Dorian.

As much as it felt like leaving Luna to the highly nosy wolves, Hermione was relieved. 

The place that Ginny had chosen for them to dance was, after all of Hermione’s nerves, actually not that bad. It was a fairly spacious bar and club, ceiling strung with multi-colored lights, and witches and wizards of varied ages were dancing enthusiastically to a selection that, judging by Mrs. Weasley’s reaction, included oldies. By Ginny’s standards, this was pretty tame. She must have been choosing with Hermione’s comfort in mind. Thankfully.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley took to the floor almost immediately, with an enthusiasm that made all four of their present children cringe in a very similar way. “I,” said Ron, touching Hermione’s arm briefly, “am going to get us drinks.”

“Good man,” said George, patting him on the back and turning to follow.

Their group spread out around one corner of the room, most people finding a chair or nook in which to stash their coat. Basic security magic meant that possessions would be stolen by only particularly tenacious thieves in a place like this.

Ron returned with a tray of drinks, which he passed out to all of them, and then, at this point knowing the drill for these kinds of evenings, turned to get a second round. He was waylaid partway there by Fleur. She was asking about how his stay with her family was going, from what Hermione could make out when she drifted as unobtrusively as she could in their direction. Ron’s face lit up as he said something, and, catching the word “ _food,_ ” Hermione shook her head in amused exasperation. Ron did seem to be taking to Parisian life rather well. She turned back towards the corner find that most of their group had dispersed out onto the dance floor. Except for Sirius, who was standing somewhat stiffly near the wall, drink in hand.

Hermione took a gulp of her drink and, clutching it a bit nervously, went to stand beside him.

He looked down at her, and smiled a crooked smile. He nodded at Ginny and Harry, who were tearing a path down one side of the dance floor. “Look good, don’t they?” he said. “I’m a little amazed–James and Lily were never that coordinated. I used to give James a hard time about it. Real sore spot.” The words were playful, but his smile was somewhere between nostalgic and nonexistent.

“It’s probably Ginny,” said Hermione, watching the pair admiringly as well. “I’m pretty sure Harry’s a terrible dancer when left to his own devices.” After a moment, she looked back at Sirius. “No dancing for you?”

He shrugged, as if to indicate his disdain for dancing.

“Why?” asked Hermione, genuinely curious. He looked… uncomfortable.

She thought for a moment that Sirius wasn’t going to answer, but he met her eyes sideways, and then sighed. “I… Merlin, Hermione, I haven’t been dancing in ages. Not since _disco_ was acceptable. Or—whatever _that_ is.” He gestured at Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who, if Hermione was any judge, seemed to be doing the locomotion.

“No dancing, I should say, with the exception of a few times during my stint in the Caribbean,” Sirius added, “after Azkaban, which I… have no intention of repeating in front of witnesses. What I can remember of it.” He took a long swig of his drink, staring at the dance floor a little darkly, though the corner of his mouth had quirked up at some thought. Perhaps related to the Caribbean. Hermione wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“Sirius,” she said, in a practical tone, “You’re talking as if _anybody_ here has any idea what they’re doing, apart from, possibly, Ginny.”

“Indeed,” said a voice from beside Hermione, and she was startled to turn and find Priscilla Delac. Sirius shifted to allow the witch into their conversation bubble. “If it makes you feel any better, Sirius,” Priscilla said to him, with a bit of slyness to her expression, “my brother and I have not danced for... the past two decades, at the very least, and yet he is managing to do so without making a fool of himself. Over there, with Luna.” She pointed, and after they had all observed for a few moments, she revised her statement: “To make a fool of himself _with_ Luna, at the very least, which is better than to make a fool of himself alone.”

“Two decades?” said Sirius, blinking down at the witch. Though not very far down. Priscilla was taller than Hermione. “I–is it rude to ask how old you are?”

“Twenty one, approximately,” said Priscilla serenely, “though we do not calculate time quite the same, where we are from.”

Sirius had raised his eyebrows, clearly redoing the mental math and coming up equally confused. “I… see,” was all he said, before taking another swig of his drink.

Priscilla was smirking up at him, with a certain satisfaction. “Have I shown you my wand?” she said, apropos of nothing. “Hermione tells me it is very unique.” She pulled it out of her sleeve and held it out, almost confidingly.

Sirius leaned in to look, his expression shocked and fascinated.

Hermione didn’t like this one bit.

Ron, however, chose this moment to tap her on the shoulder. “Wanna dance?” he said, with a grin.

A few drinks and an unknown amount of time and celebration later, Hermione was dancing arm in arm with Ginny and Harry, the three of them swaying side to side in time to a slow song. It might have been more like several drinks, Hermione reflected. What was the borderline between “several” and “few”? Was it four? It was probably four. Or three, depending on what you meant by borderline. Had she had four drinks? What was the next-higher step, after “several”?

After holding out for a good long time near the bar, Sirius had finally been coaxed out onto the dancefloor by an apparently persistent Priscilla Delac. Hermione was revising her charitable view of the witch from Friday. Very suspicious character.

Still, she had been trying not to watch them. At least not openly. She kept catching glimpses of them, between other dancers, as she swayed with Ginny and Harry. They appeared to be… _slow dancing_. To the slow song. Which made sense, Hermione supposed.

It made her feel sick to her stomach. Unable to make herself look away, she watched them as they moved back and forth. Priscilla’s arms were coiled up and over Sirius’s shoulders, and his hands were at her waist. Her lithe, dainty waist. Priscilla seemed to be leaning into Sirius, her pale dress pressed against his dark jacket.

A familiar hand slid around Hermione’s own waist from behind her, and she tore her eyes away with sudden guilt, as she turned to meet Ron’s look. “Guys,” he said to Ginny and Harry, who smiled twin, beatific smiles at him. They were enjoying the swaying. “Could you release my girlfriend, do you think?” he asked them. They looked at each other and, apparently agreeing, both nodded. They released Hermione’s hands, and Ron pulled her over to him. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, and smiled at her gently. “How you doing?” His eyes were warm and blue, and Hermione wished very much that she wanted to kiss him. Her only impulse, though, was to sway with him. The way she had with Harry and Ginny. Ron was safe. Safe and tall. She liked Ron.

“I am drunk,” she told him, articulating each word very carefully.

Grinning, he pulled her into his arms, so that she was resting her cheek against his chest. “You are indeed,” he said from above her head, and she could feel his voice vibrating in his chest as he spoke. It made her cheek tickle, against his sweater. She liked this sweater. She had gotten it for him. She hugged him, and nestled closer. Warm Ron. Useful leaning-post Ron.

The trouble with the way Ron had arranged her was that she still had a direct view of Sirius and Priscilla. Which she discovered when she noticed them. Noticed them kissing.

The feeling of it hit Hermione like a punch in the stomach. Shock. Horror. Vivid, nauseating jealousy.

Ron sensed that there was something wrong from the way she stiffened, and he pulled back, looking down at her with concern. “You okay?” he said.

Hermione looked up at him, feeling tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. She had an absurd impulse, for just a moment, to tell Ron what was really wrong. Shouldn’t she be able to tell Ron anything? Wasn’t that what their relationship was supposed to be?

“I… don’t feel so good,” was all she said. She knew, somewhat abstractly, that she would be feeling horribly guilty right now if she were sober, and that she was probably upset right now about the wrong part of her own reaction. As it was, guilt was a distant emotion, waiting for her off at the corner of her mind.

“Hey,” Ron said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get you some water.”

He sat her down on a stool by the bar, and encouraged her through a whole glass, quite gradually. She held his hand, squeezing it in thanks. When she reached the end of the glass, Hermione actually was feeling a fair bit better. She told herself.

Until she looked around the dancefloor, and realized that Sirius and Priscilla were nowhere in sight. Presumably, they had… gone.

“How’re you feeling?” asked Ron, touching her chin to tilt her face up towards him. He read her eyes, and his eyebrows lifted in sympathy. “Want me to take you home, ‘Mione?”

Miserably, Hermione nodded, and allowed her dependable Ron to walk her out of the club.

When they had apparated to the front stoop of Grimmauld Place, Ron let go of Hermione, but hesitated in front of the door. “I was planning to go back to Paris tonight,” he said, “so that I can wake up there before a work thing tomorrow, but… I don’t need to go right away. Do you,” he had stepped closer, and gently tilted Hermione’s head up to him as he said it, “want me to come in for a bit?”

Hermione looked into his eyes. Tried to feel the softness of his fingers against her skin. Tried to feel an impulse to lean into him, closing the few inches of space between their faces. Tried to feel… something. But all she could think about was the persistent knot of jealousy, sitting like a ball of lead deep inside her.

This was not good.

It was so not good that she let Ron kiss her, just in case that would fix it. And she let him kiss her again. His mouth was soft, and moist, and familiar. She let her lips move with his by rote, and she felt a little curl of… almost distaste.

She pulled away, looking down to hide her expression. “I’m sorry, Ron,” she said. “I think I overdid it. I should probably just go to sleep. I’ll be… more myself when I’ve slept this off.”

“I… alright, Hermione,” he said, and she caught an edge of disappointment to his tone. He didn’t push her, though. He let his hands fall from her waist. “Feel better. And… happy birthday.”

He opened the door for her, and, after giving her one final kiss–feather-light, as if it were perfunctory at this point for him too–he walked down the steps and disapparated.

Hermione walked down the dark entrance hall of Grimmauld Place, and it wasn’t until she began to climb the stairs and heard a faint _clink_ that she froze, horror-struck by a sudden thought. She hadn’t thought Sirius would be so indiscreet, but what if he and Priscilla had come _here_?

At any other time, Hermione would have fled all the way upstairs as silently as she could, and locked herself in her bedroom. This, however, was drunk Hermione. And she had to _know_.

She was fairly sure about which door the clink had come from. And it was, after all, more her library than anybody else’s.

She pushed the door open gently but firmly, apprehension making her stomach drop. The room was dim, lit by a single lamp. Beside it sat Sirius, completely alone. More accurately, sprawled Sirius, across half the couch. There was a bottle of firewhiskey sitting open on the table beside him.

He turned his head to look at Hermione as she came in, and they both stared at each other for a moment. “Well,” said Sirius, with the careful intonation of someone who was also quite drunk. “This is embarrassing.” He blinked at Hermione, and then looked away. “Care for some firewhiskey?” His tone was casual. But maybe deliberately so.

Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “Sure.”

Sirius picked up the bottle, and then looked around. His was the only glass, so he handed it to her as she sat on the couch beside him, taking a swig from the bottle as he passed it over.

Hermione poured herself a little bit and took a sip, then made a face. The stuff was vile. Sirius smirked a little bit at her reaction, which irritated Hermione. Meeting his eyes, she took a big gulp of the stuff. And kept her eyes open, although it burned on its way down her throat. Her eyes open, barely.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, as if he were impressed, but the expression was less animated than usual. Studying his face in the low light, Hermione realized that he actually looked distinctly off. Almost like that first night, when she had found him alone in the kitchen. He looked… tired. Maybe even sad.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, before she could think better of the notion. Her filter was a thing of the past, cordoned off somewhere along with her guilt.

Sirius looked at her, and his expression told her she was right. He was upset. He opened his mouth for a second, but then he closed it, and merely shrugged. His eyes were caught in the light of the low lamp, and she wondered again how she could ever have thought that they were dark. They were the gray of a stormy sky, and they were looking at her now with an indefinable expression. Not a happy one, though.

She tried a different tack. “How did things… go with Priscilla?” Hated name. “You seemed to be–er, to be getting along.” She tried to look calm as she said it. Inviting of information. Casual.

Sirius, puzzlingly, rolled his eyes, putting a hand to his forehead. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” he said. “Hermione, I know you’re not allowed to talk about Department of Mysteries things, but–can I ask how much that witch knows about the Veil? She tried to ask me about it, and she seemed to think that I should remember something that I wasn’t remembering. It was… odd. She also tried pretty... um, persistently, to make a pass at me. I almost admire her focus. But that was a no-go.”

Was it? Hermione looked at Sirius, waiting for more, and he shrugged again. “It just… wasn’t happening. She’s not my type. Something about her… puts my hackles up, if you’ll forgive the expression.”

Hermione would forgive the expression. She would forgive it a whole lot.

Sirius had asked her a question, though, and she felt like she owed him some kind of answer. “I don’t think I can tell you how Priscilla knows so much about the Veil,” she said, “but it sounds like Priscilla herself let on _that_ she knows a lot about it. So. I can… at least not deny that. If that helps.”

Sirius tilted his head to the side. “Confirms my feeling that I wanted to avoid her, at any rate. I’ve had enough of that Veil for one lifetime. Two, depending on how you count it.” He quirked a smile, or at least the ghost of one. The upset was still lurking, somewhere behind his expression.

Hermione scooted a little bit closer on the couch, so that she could sit beside him without looking at him. She had read somewhere that men talked to each other this way when they were confiding, most often, while women talked face to face. Sirius’s arm was touching hers, the leather of his jacket cool against her bare skin.

“Can I ask,” she said softly, “why you’re upset, then? If it’s not Priscilla?”

He was silent for a moment. “I… dammit, Hermione.” His voice was rough. “You seem to keep catching me when I’m all… like this.”

Not daring to look at him, Hermione shifted the arm that was touching his and extended her fingers, curling them gently over his hand. The gesture was feather-light. Comforting. She kept her hand there, feeling the warmth of his skin, and waited. The low light and the alcohol were making her free to do things. Maybe they would make him free to say things. And Sirius Black, she knew with great conviction, had a lot that he needed to say.

“I think,” he finally said, very quietly, “that it was Harry and Ginny. That set it off, at least. I usually manage to ignore it, but something about seeing them dancing. They’re…” his voice hitched in his throat, and his fingers spasmed around Hermione’s. Then he managed, in almost a whisper, “Hermione, he’s _so much_ like James.”

His voice broke a little on the name, and Hermione was up on her knees, and turning to him, and pulling him against her in a fierce hug. He let his arms come around her, and his face rested in the curve of her neck, between her ear and her shoulder. Her fingers had found their way to his overlong hair, and she was carding them through its softness, which was so much better than she had been imagining. She could feel him trembling a little, though he was almost unnaturally silent, and his arms had locked around her waist with a fierce strength. She stroked his head, murmuring nonsense as she tried to press her nearness to him. “Oh, Sirius, it’s okay, it’s _allowed_ to hurt, you’re _allowed_ … Shhh, Sirius, I know…”

His breath was hot against her collarbone, his lips a whisper away from the skin. “Hermione,” he said, and she felt every syllable. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t... It just hit me, again, how much _fucking_ time I’ve l-lost…” He was holding her close, with the desperation of a drowning man clinging to a raft. She wrapped her arms around him with equal fierceness, pressing him into her. His trembling had slowed, and eventually stopped, though he did not loosen his arms. She had slowed her murmur as well, and now only whispered, “Shhh, shhh.”

She felt a warm tear on her collarbone. Oh, Sirius.

More, she had to do more to fix this. Overcome with tenderness, she pressed her lips against the top of his head, and then, leaning down, against his temple.

This finally made him loosen his grip, and he looked up to meet her eyes, his expression at first one of surprise. The tear had left a track winding down his cheek, and Hermione brushed it away with her thumb. She found, then, that she was reluctant to take her hand from his face. So she kept it there.

Sirius’s gray eyes were inches from hers, and the two of them stayed like that for a moment, looking. Then Sirius’s gaze hardened with a kind of intensity, and he leaned forward, pressing his mouth to hers.

His lips were soft at first, but the kiss did not remain so. Hermione opened her mouth to him willingly, and his tongue tangled with hers. Her senses were flooded with the feeling of him, and she was lost almost instantly. His fingers were in her hair, or maybe hers were in his. She could taste the firewhiskey, and his stubble was rough against her face as their mouths moved together. She let out a soft noise, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and his hands slid down her back, pulling her nearer. She straddled his lap, pushing as close as she could get, her mouth urgent against his. One of his hands had roamed even lower, gripping her thigh as he held her against him. She could feel each finger, pressed into the skin beneath the edge of her dress. His other hand had found her hair again, threading through it, and when he gently tugged, pulling her head back to expose her neck to his attentions, she made the little noise again. He was kissing the column of her throat, and then the side of her neck, just below her ear, which made her _squirm_.

She had caught her breath, though, now that her mouth was not taken up with his, and this meant that she had also caught up with what was happening.

She froze.

Sirius felt her stiffen, and this seemed to bring him back down to earth as well. He let go of her, drawing back, as if she had given him an electric shock, and she scrambled off of his lap, coming to a seat at the far end of the couch, from which she looked back at him.

What had she just done? What had _they_ just done?

She wondered if she looked the way he did. Clothes a little bit disheveled, breath faster than normal, eyes still dark with the remnants of their sudden desire.

He looked shocked. “Hermione,” he said, a little bit hoarsely, “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what–what I was thinking. I’m–I must be much drunker than I thought.”

She only looked at him, heart pounding, because she didn’t know what to say.

A kind of hardness settled over his face from one instant to the next, and he pushed himself to his feet, no longer meeting her eyes. “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have let myself get like this.”

And before she could say anything to _that_ , he had fled the room.

As she heard his footsteps retreating up the stairs, Hermione pulled her feet up onto the couch, curling herself into a ball. Her hair was falling down, lopsided, where Sirius had pulled it out of its arrangement. Eyes wide, she brought her fingers to her face, touching her mouth where she could still almost feel the roughness of his kisses. Her body was still thrumming with the aftermath of their encounter, while her head swam with the aftereffects of the firewhiskey and the night out. She touched her lips again, delicately.

There was, she thought with sudden clarity, only one honorable way out of this situation she’d gotten herself into. Or one least dishonorable way.

She would have to break up with Ron. As she had the thought, a clock in the corner of the room chimed, announcing one in the morning. One in the morning on Sunday the nineteenth of September.

_Hermione Granger_ , she thought. _Clever, my arse._

_Happy twentieth birthday, you idiot._


	10. Hermione Really Needs a Hug

Ch. 10

Hermione woke up in what could barely be called the morning anymore, to the worst hangover she had ever experienced. She was not typically a heavy drinker, so that wasn’t saying all that much. Still, the clogged, aching feeling of her head was… not pleasant.

Something similar could be said for the state of her mind.

She managed to survive a stealthy trip to the hallway bathroom–the last thing she wanted was to run into another human being right now, much less Sirius, whose room was _down the hall_ , as she had been reminding herself in a panic since waking. Having successfully gotten back to her room with a large glass of water, she tottered back to her bed and crawled under the covers again. This was a moment for wallowing and contemplation. Her mind was at war with itself.

On the one hand, the deep and wretched guilt. She kept imagining what Ron’s face would look like if he found out. He would go pale. He would think he was angry at first, but this would dissolve quickly into bewildered hurt and self-doubt. His blue eyes would begin to fill with tears, which he would blink away in embarrassment as he did his best to hold his composure together. He would want to know what he had done wrong. Since it was impossible for her, the wise and gentle Hermione Granger, keeper of his heart’s allegiance since they were children, to have done something as randomly hurtful and unjustifiable as… well, practically wrapping herself around another man like a wanton kitten.

And _that_ line of thinking was the other camp currently doing its best to establish supremacy in her mental battle this morning. Hermione had thought her crush on Sirius was a problem before. Now she was… overwhelmed. Her mind kept supplying her with little sensory tidbits from their encounter last night. The solidity of him, when she had been pulled into his lap, knees around his waist, and they had been pressed every inch together. The feeling of his fingers digging into her thigh, or the way his lips had worked their way hungrily down her throat. She was fairly sure she had even dreamed about him, as she had woken up flushed and aroused, with only the faintest fading memory that whatever her subconscious had been up to had been both unspeakable and very much involving Sirius’s mouth and hands.

Hermione was forced to admit to herself that she had never felt like this before. More specifically, that she had never, _ever_ felt this way about Ron. To put her feelings about Ron into the same category now felt like almost an insult to both men. Hermione had always wanted to love Ron. To be there for him–to be affectionate, and to value each other.

What she wanted to do to Sirius could not be expressed in polite language.

And so, she was faced again with her realization from last night. She was going to have to give Ron up. It was the only fair and honest way.

She got out a piece of parchment, and she spent a great long time figuring out what to write to Ron. All she really arrived at, though, was that she would have to talk to him in person.

_Dear Ron_ , she wrote, _I’m sorry that we split on the note that we did last night. We didn’t get to talk at all. Do you think you could come back tonight for a bit? I know the Ministry border control will be annoying about it. But, I want to see you. Please come?_

She began to end it _Yours, Hermione,_ and then replaced it with _Love, Hermione_. That, at least, was true. She would never not love Ron. She was just coming to understand, now, what kind of love it actually was.

Before she could second-guess herself or give in to her trepidation, she went up to the attic to find their household owl, Hugin, and sent the letter.

After that, there was nothing for her to do but stew. At a certain point, she worked up the courage to move downstairs to the library, where she could at least work on some reading. Her stomach was filled with butterflies at the knowledge that, at any moment, she could run into Sirius around the house. She was dreadfully excited, but also nervous. Was he still thinking about what had happened last night? _What_ was he thinking about it?

As it happened, though, she did not run into Sirius at all. She sat reading in the library for hours, and made a few trips around the house and to the kitchen to see if he might be lurking there. She almost asked Harry, who was playing gobstones in the kitchen with Ginny, whether he had seen Sirius. The trouble was that if she asked, Harry might ask why she wanted to know… Had Sirius even left his room today? Hermione was reaching the point where she felt tempted to ask Kreacher.

This particular question was answered, finally, when Hermione, Harry, and Ginny had sat down to dinner and they heard the front door open, and the sounds of Sirius coming in.

He trotted down into the kitchen a few moments later, looking almost… chipper? There was something unusually clean-cut about the collared shirt and slacks that he was wearing.

“Evening, everyone,” he said, sliding into his usual seat. Hermione was smiling at him helplessly, though her smile dimmed a bit when his friendly look around at the three of them seemed to skate over her without pause. Was he avoiding her eyes?

Her smile was eradicated entirely by the words Harry said next: “Nice to see you, Sirius. How was your date?”

“Was nice,” said Sirius, with a shrug and a small smile, and Hermione very suddenly lost all her appetite. And her excitement. Though not, thankfully, her composure, to which she was clinging with iron strength. She even managed, through a fog of sinking hopes, to nod encouragingly and to plaster a new smile onto her face while Harry and Ginny extracted more details from Sirius.

Who was the woman? She owned an antique shop in Diagon Alley, and they had met a couple of days ago when Sirius went to see about offloading some heirlooms that he particularly disliked. Her name? Gwendolyn. ( _Gwendolyn_. Like some kind of fairy from a nauseating children’s book.) Did Sirius like her? She seemed… nice. (Hermione was starting to hate the word _nice_.) Was Sirius going on another date with her, did he think? A shrug. And then: “Sure. Why not?”

Ginny and Harry seemed very pleased by this development, and Hermione got the impression that they were excited to see Sirius “getting out there.” Meeting people. Setting up a new life as a free man. Grinding the tender shoots of Hermione’s hopes into the unyielding ground.

All highly overrated activities.

Dinner was, mercifully, over fairly soon. Hermione helped clear the table, ignoring Kreacher’s muttered protests more firmly than she usually did. Sirius didn’t comment or tease her about her treatment of the elf, which added to her general feeling of doom.

Harry and Ginny left first to go upstairs, which, for a few moments, left Sirius and Hermione alone. When the door shut behind them, Hermione turned from the sink to look at Sirius, and he paused, looking awkward and, possibly, a little bit stricken. Like a student cold-called in class.

“Well,” he said, “I think I’ll head up too. …unless there’s, um, anything you need help with?” His gesture took in the sink full of dishes that she had wrested from Kreacher’s custody.

Hermione blinked at him, and then shook her head. “No, I’m good,” she said. She picked up a plate, to demonstrate how good she was.

Sirius nodded. “Well, um… ’Night, then, ’Mione.” A strangely jocular half-salute type of wave. And then he left.

_’Mione?_ She winced, and put down the plate, staring into the sink. It seemed pretty clear, at this point, that Sirius was not planning to address what had happened last night. In fact, he was acting as if he was pretty determined to pretend it had never happened at all.

If it weren’t for the reproach that she could imagine in Kreacher’s eyes, Hermione would have broken the plate. She was beyond embarrassed. Who had she thought she was, to imagine that _Sirius Black_ would be attracted to her, the frumpy, frizzy-haired nerd friend of his godson? That a drunk fumble in a moment of impulsiveness and vulnerability was anything other than a passing mistake, and a testament to the state of mind he had happened to be in, combined with the strength of the firewhiskey? He could date real women, who were established, and confident, and knew what they wanted. Single, and unimpeachably eligible. Who owned property, and businesses, and multiple sets of formal robes. Who had something to offer him other than a whole lot of superfluous book learning and a sackful of pathetic emotions. And who didn’t spook and scramble out of his embrace like a frightened child.

Merlin. And Ron should be getting here any minute.

Ron found Hermione sitting on her bed–their bed–telling herself that she was not, under any circumstances, going to cry.

“Hey, ’Mione,” he said, sitting down beside her and kissing her on the cheek. She leaned towards him, and he pulled her into a one-armed hug against his side. He was warm, and his arm around her shoulders ever so secure. “What’s up?” he said. “You seemed a little upset in your letter.”

This was it. Out or in. She owed Ron honesty.

The only thing was, she was no longer convinced that the events of last night mattered all that much. To anyone but her. Sirius would sail on past them, and it didn’t seem like anything similar was particularly likely to occur again in future. Ron would be dreadfully and unnecessarily hurt if she told him. And she… could eventually persuade herself to forget. In the meantime, she could at least live with it. And Ron was so good to her, really. Shouldn’t she do her best to stick it out, at least until she was very sure that she couldn’t? Maybe she could fall in love with Ron all over again. Didn’t she owe it to him to try?

And so, in response to his question, she just leaned in so that she could hug him more properly. “I miss you,” she said, “and I was just sorry that we didn’t get to talk last night. I’m sorry… that I got sick.”

“Hey, no need to apologize,” he said, squeezing her shoulders reassuringly with his arm. “It’s not as if you did it on purpose. And anyway, here I am again. So let’s talk now.”

They settled back against the headboard, side by side, and talked for what turned into a couple of hours. Ron seemed to be loving Paris. His face lit up when he told stories about his training program, and how gratifying it was to be one of the best in the group there. He seemed very fond of Fleur’s family, in a way that he was possibly a little bit embarrassed about. Given the veela blood in the equation, Hermione only rolled her eyes, mostly fondly. She was glad that Ron had Fleur’s parents there to make sure he had everything he needed. If she remembered properly from Bill and Fleur’s wedding, Fleur’s mother was almost alarmingly capable and efficient. Mrs. Weasley had apparently taken to sending Ron almost daily care packages, in a somewhat aggressive display of maternal providing. This amused Hermione more than it did Ron.

They eventually reached the part of the evening where it was time either for them to go to bed, or for Ron to leave. He had training work in the morning.

Hermione had twined her fingers with his, and she was trying very hard to appreciate Ron’s presence. The way his legs stretched out down the bed so much further than her own had once amused her and made her feel pleasantly delicate and small. The sweetness of his kisses had warmed her. She knew exactly how their lovemaking would go, from fumbling, familiar start to… rhythmic… end. And wasn’t there something comforting in that?

Ron was looking at his watch.

“You can stay, if you want,” Hermione said. “I won’t mind if you wake me up in the morning to head back early.”

Ron tilted his head, looking apologetic. “I’m… I’m actually thinking that I should really get back. Tomorrow is supposed to be a pretty important day, so I need to get good sleep. It was,” he added, with almost a little bit too much enthusiasm, “really good to see you, though, ’Mione. Sorry that I have to scoot out.”

“That’s fine,” Hermione heard herself saying. “No worries. I’m glad that you’re being so responsible about the training.” She smiled at him.

“Finally, right?” He smiled back at her, and then leaned in to kiss her. On the forehead. And then, gathering his coat up, he departed.

Hermione was left alone on the bed, feeling small–though also fat, probably, and ugly–and extremely unwanted. Had she done this? What had she done?

She had some trouble, then, maintaining her resolution not to cry.

…

In the days that followed, Hermione’s chief solace was to throw herself back into her work. If she couldn’t fix whatever it was that she had done to her own life, perhaps she could still make right what she had done to her parents’.

She was free from Delac duty this week, as Priscilla and Dorian had gone with Luna on a trip to collect stones for the Veil, and Fenshaw had agreed that Hermione probably wasn’t needed for what sounded like a fairly mundane process. They would be locating the stones at the sites of ancient barrows in Wales and Scotland because, according to Dorian, these stones had absorbed a useful kind of familiarity both with magic and death over the course of many centuries.

Hermione was intrigued by his confident belief that stones could absorb such a thing, but not enough to want to go dig the stones up by hand for several days. Dorian, with an almost irritating enthusiasm, did not want to “corrupt their mood” by using new magic to extract them from the ground–this being, apparently, also the reason that the original stones could not be reused. They had been pushed “out of tune” by the Veil’s destruction. Dorian’s translation amulet seemed to have some trouble with the idioms whenever he tried to explain this.

Privately, Hermione’s chief satisfaction about the trip was less the break from the Veil project, and more the fact that Priscilla had little choice about participating in the digging. She did not seem like the excavating type, and Hermione would have bet money that Priscilla had made Dorian collect the stones himself the first time around.

Still, it was good to be getting back to her own work. Or it would be, if she wasn’t gaining the increasing feeling that most of her research was only leading her in circles. Today she was reading about the differences between muggle and wizard brains, with a pair of the appropriate organs in tanks for direct reference. She had had to keep the tanks separate, as the wizard brain seemed determined to attack the muggle brain when given the chance, rather like a beta fish. Hermione liked to imagine that the brain had belonged to a particularly snobby pureblood, which made her feel better about zapping it with spells every now and then to see what it did.

The muggle brain, by contrast, required significant delicacy when she wanted to work with it. It floated motionless, cushioned in several layers of protective magic that kept it full of living fluids and electrical impulses, though, according to everything she could find to read on the subject, this was only an approximation of a fully functioning brain, sluggish and somewhat unpredictable at best.

The trouble was that there was simply no way to keep a muggle brain truly alive in isolation, even with magic. This was because of a fundamental difference in the biology: where muggle brains functioned fully by means of electrical impulses, wizard brains infused and even replaced many of the same processes with magic. This magical “infusion” was present to higher and lower extents in different magical brains, which explained the difference in energy levels of the brains in the main tank, and of the ability of the few most powerful to create tangible tentacles out of their thought intentions.

A high saturation of this kind of thought-magic–Hermione was trying hard not to mentally refer to it as “brain juice”–also gave wizard brains significantly more plasticity than muggle brains: where a muggle brain cell might stay in the same place for a great long time, and at some point die permanently, wizard brain cells seemed to do peculiar things like move, grow, and even heal.

It was this last ability that Hermione was trying to learn more about. Magic gave wizard brains the ability to change. But what, exactly, did it have the ability to do to muggle brains when it was used on them?

Memories, she had determined, existed in the same area of the brain for both muggles and wizards. This made sense. The brains were structurally identical, it was only that magic got into the systems of wizard brains and mucked up any expectations past that point that she might bring over from muggle medicine.

What Hermione was stuck on was this: if memories, in a muggle, resided physically in connections in the brain, that meant that something lost in a muggle mind was lost forever. The cells or synapses would be gone, in most cases, unless a connection had just been temporarily switched off (as might be the case in an illusion-type spell). This was why Obliviators were so carefully trained–the erasing they did by Obliviating was final in muggles, and any new memories they inserted would, in most cases, have to be carefully crafted illusion spells that would sit in a muggle’s mind and imitate a memory, permanently.

The trouble was that Hermione had done something different, because an illusion spell could simply be switched off again–by, say, a skilled Death Eater. Hermione had cast a Rementire spell, which had grown new memories in the place of her parents’ old ones, based around some guiding suggestions she had built into the spell, but formed by their real brains. There was no way at all to “get back” an Obliviated memory, but what about a memory that had been–regrown?

Nobody seemed to know. The outlook did seem grim, in that the physical memories were no longer in her parents’ minds–those parts of their brains had been physically reformed into their new memories. But Hermione was thinking, now, about the kind of magics that the Ministry seemed to know little about. Dumbledore had once talked about the ability of primal magics to leave a trace–the scar on Harry’s forehead that behaved so unpredictably was there by sheer force of love. If the strength of feelings like love left a trace, might there be a way to find the traces of those true feelings in her parents’ minds?

Only, how would she tell the true feelings apart from the false? Who and what else might Wendell and Monica Wilkins have come to love, in the time since they had been Hermione Granger’s parents?

Having built up her theoretical research to the point where she needed to do tests to find any answers, Hermione was now working with St. Mungo’s again, doing some gentle testing on patients in their memory ward. This had involved a somewhat uncomfortable reunion with Gilderoy Lockhart, but little else of note. All of her results only seemed to confirm what Hermione officially knew–that memories that weren’t physically there, weren’t there.

Still, at Fenshaw’s urging, Hermione had agreed to move into what was necessarily the next phase of her project. Not quite able to face doing it herself, she had allowed the Department to contact a colleague in Australia to perform a simple suggestion charm, and the Ministry had pulled a few strings here in England. Wendell and Monica Wilkins, as of Wednesday morning, lived in London. They would need to be nearby, if Hermione was to gather data from them conveniently and regularly, without having to navigate international wizarding law every time she needed a hair sample for a potion or spell.

They had been set up in a very normal life. Wendell Wilkins was working in a pharmaceutical lab, and Monica Wilkins had been hired as a hairdresser–which was, apparently, what she believed to be her lifelong passion. The Ministry had deemed these professions strategically best, since both jobs would make it fairly easy to get biological samples from the couple unobtrusively, and both were repetitive enough that minor inconsistencies in their memories would not stand out horribly if any Obliviating became necessary.

Hermione hadn’t asked Fenshaw, because she did not want to be told that she should not, but she had been forming a plan ever since they arrived. She wanted to see her parents. She waited until the weekend, partially because this would mean she didn’t need to hurry in or out of work and possibly seem suspicious to Fenshaw. Or to Fenshaw’s cat, Nero, who sometimes seemed like he _knew_ when you didn’t want to mention a thing. But it was also because she was not very sure that this plan was a good idea.

By Saturday morning, it was less that she had talked herself into it logically, and more that she couldn’t stop herself. She had been largely isolating herself in her room at Grimauld Place all week, and with no Sirius or Ron to distract her, and no Ginny, Harry, or Luna to lighten her load, she was left with the growing need to poke at her own wound. It had been over a year now since she had last seen her parents. She had to see again what she had done to them, face to face. She had to see that they didn’t know her at all.

She had decided to start with her mother, partially because it was logistically easy to set up an appointment with her. She hadn’t yet come up with a good plan for getting into her father’s lab. But she couldn’t help also feeling that seeing her mother first was an impulse born of some kind of primal hope, deep within her. Her love for her father was strong, but it was a love born of getting to know someone over a lifetime, and of becoming the truest of friends. Her love for her mother was less extricable. Hermione had grown inside her, had breathed and been fed and become a human being under her care. Could all of that truly be gone?

She arrived at the hair parlor and was greeted by a young woman who, though very friendly, was a complete stranger, as was the woman who had Hermione sit down and began to wash her hair. Hermione had not, so far, seen her mother anywhere, and she was trying to be very patient about it.

Strangely, it was the feeling of having her hair washed that wormed its way under her veneer of calm. It had been years since Hermione had had her hair washed by somebody else. She had taken to cutting her own hair using glamour spells, since it was more consistent than muggle hairdressers, and she could correct mistakes whenever she didn’t feel confident about it. There was something inexpressibly soothing, though, about having someone else press their hands to her scalp, massaging and cleaning all of her heavy, tangled hair. With her eyes closed, the rest of the parlor faded, and she felt every gentle movement of the woman’s hands. It was an inherently caring, almost tender thing. It asked for nothing. It only gave.

It almost made Hermione feel more tense than ever to know that this was the closest she had come in months–years, maybe–to truly just… letting go.

She was inching towards allowing herself to really enjoy the experience when she heard her mother’s voice. Nothing important. Casual words. “Rhonda, is that–oh, lovely, thanks. Yes, I’ll just wait over here, you can send her over when she’s ready.”

Like a lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky, Hermione suddenly began to cry.

She tried to hide it, controlling her breathing and hoping that the tears that slipped down the sides of her face would blend with the water around her hair. The woman washing her hair seemed not to notice, or at least refrained from reacting when she prompted Hermione to sit up and wrapped her head in a towel.

She led her over to a rotating chair and a mirror in front of a short, mildly plump woman, who, if Hermione was being honest, barely looked recognizably like her mother as they approached.

Her hair, which had been showing some gray these days, was now dyed a merry red and was cut at a jaunty, modern angle. Her clothing was… bright. And flowing. She looked like the type of woman who had attended a great many rock concerts in her youth, and who probably had a crystal collection. Nothing like the clean-cut, collared shirts and slacks, Sunday school and pearl earrings Phoebe Granger that Hermione knew. Monica Wilkins smiled a magenta-lipsticked smile at Hermione, and gestured to the chair.

Hermione had seized control over her composure, and she sat in the chair with a tight smile. Her mother leaned around her and gathered Hermione’s hair back with her hand in order to fasten the hairdresser’s smock around her neck. The familiarity of the feeling of her mother’s hand, gently against her neck, hit Hermione like a punch in the stomach. She blinked rapidly, feeling her throat grow tight again in spite of herself.

Monica Wilkins met her eyes in the mirror, and for a moment they looked at each other. Then her mother’s face suffused with sympathy. “Oh honey,” she said, “are you alright?”

Hermione opened her mouth to say that, oh, she was fine, thanks. And her voice caught on the first word. And the tears clawed their way back up her throat. And she found herself saying, “N-not really. I’m s-so sorry, I d-don’t usually do this…” as sobs pushed their way through the sentence.

Her mother produced a tissue box from out of nowhere, and she rubbed Hermione’s arm in a soothing gesture that made Hermione’s heart clench with recognition. “You wanted just a brush and a trim?” she said. Hermione nodded, blotting at her face furiously with a tissue as the tears continued to fall. “Well then,” said her mother, “why don’t I start brushing your hair, and you can tell me all about it, hm? It might be easier that way. You’ll be doing me a favor, I wait days to hear about things that aren’t the weather or the news.” Her words were playful, but the smile she was giving Hermione was gentle, and it warmed Hermione like the rays of an almost-forgotten sun.

“I’m so sorry,” she managed, though her voice quavered. Her mother nodded encouragingly. “It’s just… I’ve had so many things going on in my life that I don’t know what to do about–things that I have no experience with, and no answers for. Like…” she searched wildly for a moment. What could she talk to a muggle about? “Like, um, my boyfriend. And my… uh, not at all boyfriend. It’s so confusing. And, you see, my…” she took a deep breath. Her mother’s brown eyes looked back at her from the mirror, as brown as her own, and the feeling of the brush moving through her hair felt like every morning of her childhood. With a wobble in her voice, she finished, “My parents passed… passed away, a couple of years ago. And there just hasn’t been anybody–anybody that I could really talk to about it, who would be just on my side of it all. You know?”

“Oh, I know,” said the very red-haired, but very brown-eyed Monica Wilkins. The smile she gave Hermione was just slightly off, and wrong for her face, but its warmth was not off at all. “That,” she said, “is exactly why we have priests and hairdressers.”

Expertly wielding the hairbrush, she coiled Hermione’s hair on top of her head, and pulled out a pair of scissors. “Now,” she added, “tell me about these boys.”


	11. The Importance of Whether Otters are Adorable

Chapter 11

Hermione arrived home feeling energized for the first time all week. She and her mother had talked, and they had… gotten along. Well. It was foolish to hope that that meant her mother actually recognized her at any level, but it could speak to a sympathy lingering somewhere… Hermione needed books. Lots of them. She hurried up the stairs and to her library, mind whirring with the things she wanted to look up–and she stopped short.

Sirius was sitting in her library. On the couch, reading one of her books.

She turned around, starting right back out. It might be her library, but it was his house, and she didn’t want to drive him out with her presence as she had the last time they’d been alone. She could read in her room. Although maybe she should take a moment to just _accio_ a few of the books-

“Hermione,” said Sirius, and she looked at him. “Care to–uh, join me?” He gestured at the couch across from him. “I kind of hate being alone in this house,” he added, as she hovered uncertainly by the seat. “Still feels like being cooped up during the war, when it’s just me.” He was looking at her with an oddly careful and conciliatory expression. Like a dog who had recently been caught breaking something and was now being _very_ good. 

Hermione sat down. “What are you reading?” she asked, pointing at the book.

“Sneakoscopes,” he said, “for George. We’re trying to figure out if we can code them to recognize specific people, rather than just general unsavoriness.”

“Interesting,” said Hermione. “Recognizing the same way the Marauder’s Map does?” She was honestly intrigued, somewhat in spite of herself.

Sirius nodded. “Very similar setup. Trouble is, the Map had a huge existing infrastructure of the Castle’s magic to kind of skim from. We’d have to key the Sneakoscopes to individual people from scratch. Though once the spell recognizes someone the first time, it’s pretty simple from there.”

“How _do_ you recognize an individual person magically?” Hermione asked. “I’ve been wondering that about the map for years, it didn’t seem like anything we covered in school. Or quite like anything I’ve read about.”

Sirius smiled, looking just a little bit smug. “You wouldn’t have, unless you plundered the Restricted section at Hogwarts. Which, of course, we did, before we made the Map. We actually borrowed the technique from animagus magic, of all things. Though it was a pretty simple transfer from it, to be honest. The rest of animagus magic is harder.”

“Is it?” she said eagerly. “How does it work?”

He was grinning at her expression. “Alright,” he said. “Usually people aren’t so keen on the gory details.” He leaned back, with an air of settling in for a long story. “So, there are a few parts to becoming an animagus, and to the transformation. The technically hardest part is the pure transfiguration magic–a lot of people don’t have the necessary raw magic, or their intent isn’t crystal clear enough, or they aren’t rigorous about the technique. Like when you splinch yourself, or turn a toad only partially into a kettle, yes?”

Hermione nodded.

“Right. Well, assuming your technique is solid enough to even attempt it, the next step is identify your own unique magical signature. That actually isn’t all that hard. It’s part of how any sophisticated magical item recognizes you, like recognizing somebody by their thumbprint.”

“Is it like DNA?” Hermione asked. Sirius blinked. “I mean, I’m assuming it’s unique for every person, but does it–does it include everything about your magic, or is it just kind of a surface feature? DNA is… well, it’s from muggle science, it’s how all of our traits are grown from our parents’. It’s like a blueprint for your whole identity.”

“Interesting,” said Sirius. “I don’t know if it’s exactly that, but it’s certainly more like a blueprint for your magical self than it is like a thumbprint, now that you say that. Or, hm… let me clarify. There are two steps that relate to your magical signature when you’re becoming an animagus. The first is the simple act of identifying it as different from others–that’s the part that’s like a thumbprint, because the spell just needs to tell whose it is and that it’s unique, to target it. That’s the part that we transferred over to the Map. Follow me? Great. And then the actual hardest part, in my opinion, is _understanding_ your magical signature to the depth necessary to fully and clearly _intend_ every part of the transformation into the animal. You have to understand both yourself and the animal, but at a level way beyond the surface, until the identification kind of slots into your magic as _right_. Which is much, much harder than simply recognizing your own magic as yours in the first part of the process. So that’s the part that’s like a blueprint–you have to understand your whole soul, floor to ceiling, in order to transform it. And not just intellectually, but viscerally. That’s what makes being an animagus so much more unique than something like a glamour. You’re not making yourself look like an animal, you’re becoming one. Make sense?”

“It… it does,” said Hermione. “Can you teach me to do it?” She hadn’t even hesitated. If understanding her own magic was a blueprint to _her_ –if that was anything at all like DNA, then it would also necessarily be a blueprint to parts of her parents. She hoped.

Sirius was looking thoughtful. “I… could, yes. You’re aware that it’s illegal to go about it on our own, yes?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Aware enough that I’ve used the fact to blackmail somebody, yes. I… I could always go about registering myself after the fact. But to be honest, I’m still paranoid enough from the war to like the thought of some serious magic up my sleeve. The Ministry is distinctly not always right about things.”

Sirius was looking impressed. “Who did you blackmail?”

Hermione smirked. “It may or may not have been Rita Skeeter. Strictly between us.”

Sirius grinned. “Amazing. Though I’m much more surprised that she was able to muster the magic to become an unregistered animagus than that you blackmailed her. Though after Wormtail, it really shouldn’t surprise me that she could. It’s mostly that it’s a big time commitment to working through it all–first you have to practice all of the components of the animal on something else, to make sure you’ve got the magic down, which can take a long time. And then there’s sometimes no telling how long the deeper understanding of yourself-as-the-animal will take. That’s honestly the part you should start first. Are you sure you want to take all of this on now, though? Aren’t you busy with things you can’t talk about?” His expression was inquiring, rather than accusatory.

“This might actually… relate,” Hermione said. “I mean, you already know that I’m working on my parents. So it should make sense that learning about my own nature might bring me closer to theirs, right?”

Sirius looked thoughtful. “I hadn’t thought of that before. I suppose magical signatures might be related. Between family members, I mean. Though Merlin knows what that means for me, given the load of snakes I’m descended from. I should–well, I don’t know much about the situation with your parents. But I feel like I should warn you that magical signatures aren’t a... physical thing. They’re much harder to pin down than that.”

Hermione tilted her head. “So you can’t… extract them? Or isolate them? Work with them directly?”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, thinking about it, his eyebrows furrowed. Hermione was fleetingly distracted, as this caused a lock of dark hair to fall over his eyes. He absently brushed it back. “I think you _can_ isolate them,” he said, “in a way. It’s just that it wouldn’t look like–like a memory, for instance. It’s not a material you can bottle. It might be more like a ghost. I should find you the book we got all of this from–I’d bet McGonagall would let us borrow it, especially if you were the one who asked. But if I’m remembering correctly, that might even be what ghosts are. What they’re made of, for lack of a better term. They’re like an echo of that magical signature–yourself in magic form. You could even argue,” and he frowned a little, “that _fully_ extracting it is what a horcrux is. Though I don’t understand it fully enough to say that with confidence. I’m not sure anybody does.”

Hermione was thinking hard. “So are you saying,” she said, “that ‘magical signature’ might be another way of talking about somebody’s… soul?”

Sirius tilted his head. “I think,” he said, “that I don’t want to say that without a lot of… awe and hesitation. And a hell of a lot of research. But that might be your department,” he half-smiled, “no pun intended.”

It was indeed Hermione’s Department, as far as she knew. She sat back in her chair, thinking hard. This level of magic–deep magic, old magic–might be exactly what she needed. She would leave no avenue unexplored. “I definitely want to learn to be an animagus, then,” she said. “And I’ll… see about the rest of it. Possibly in ways that I won’t be able to tell you about.”

He smiled. “That’s fine. More fun anyway to try and piece it together from clues you drop. Do you mind if I ask Harry if he wants to learn to be an animagus as well? He was asking me the other day about how James learned, and I think he didn’t quite have the confidence to ask about doing it himself. But he’ll be unbearable if he finds out I’m teaching you without him.”

Hermione grinned. “Oh, absolutely. He wouldn’t say so, but it would be the resentful sulk on full blast. None of us want that.”

“Very much not,” agreed Sirius, with a smirk. “Give me a few days to gather some materials, then, and we can all start in on it as soon as you want.”

“Amazing. As soon as possible, as far as I’m concerned. I–thanks, Sirius. Truly. I wouldn’t have thought of this on my own.” She hoped that her gratitude was coming through, and nothing silly like flirtation. He didn’t have to do this for her, given how awkward things had been between them recently, and yet he was.

“It’s my pleasure, Hermione,” he said, “And I’m happy to be a sounding board anytime. Even the cleverest witches are allowed to want to workshop their ideas, you know.” The warmth in his gray eyes made her cheeks turn slightly pink, as did his very gently teasing tone. Was he back to treating her like he normally did?

“Thanks,” she said, trying not to sound too touched. “I… I’ll keep that in mind. If only because there are some things I can’t workshop with my boss without sounding like an idiot. Even non-confidential things. Just…” she gestured helplessly, “magic can be so confusing, sometimes.”

“It certainly can,” he said, “though you might want to be careful who you say that around. You’ll spoil your all-powerful image.” He had stretched back further into the couch, sinking into his typical legs-extended sprawl, hands behind his head. Hermione tried not to drink in the way the posture stretched out the lean lines of him, or the way it pulled his t-shirt tight enough for her to see the planes of his chest. This was their first proper time together since that awful moment in the kitchen, and he seemed to be finally relaxing in her presence again–more than could be said for her. He was looking down his nose at her consideringly, a slight smile on his lips, and the look was almost arrogant. She wanted to kiss it off his face. And was somewhat concerned that her mind was now so readily crystallizing her… wants.

“Anything else I can help you with at the moment?” he asked, and she was momentarily confused. “As a sounding board,” he clarified.

She was _not_ flushed. “I… actually, there is something I’ve been thinking about. And I kind of can’t mention it to my boss, because I’m not sure she’d approve of my having done it. My, uh… my parents are in London, now. As of a few days ago. And I went to see my mother, today.”

This had prompted him to sit up straight again, and his look was one of mild concern. “How did that go?”

“It was actually… really nice. And really awful, at the same time. Because it wasn’t her. But it also _was_ , because I was finally–um, close to her again. As much as I could be. She gave me a haircut, which was a little bit ridiculous. And we just… talked. And I don’t know if it will even help with my research, or anything. I just… had to _see_ her.” She had looked away as she spoke, faintly embarrassed to be laying out something so emotional.

Sirius’s voice was quiet. “I know what you mean. At least, a little. That’s how I felt when I needed to see Harry after Azkaban. He was… my family. They may not know you, Hermione, but that doesn’t mean you don’t still know them. That doesn’t stop because they don’t recognize you.”

Not trusting herself to look at him, Hermione nodded. “It was almost like she did, though,” she said, very quietly. “Like she recognized me. It _felt_ like it. Not consciously. But like our… um, like our souls did. Do you think that’s possible?”

Sirius was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t think,” he said finally, “that that’s outside the realm of possibility, by any means. But I also don’t know what it would mean, if it were true. I don’t want to give you false hope.”

Hermione nodded again. It had been a little bit of a pointless fishing for reassurances, she knew. But it was good to hear him say that it was possible, at least. She was still looking down at her hands, rather than at Sirius.

“I think,” he said, standing up, “that I might have something relevant to all this in the books I’ve been borrowing from George, if only as a starting point for what we were talking about earlier. Let me see if I can find it.” Walking past her to the bookshelves, he paused for a moment and rested his hand on her shoulder, a gesture of comfort. His fingers didn’t quite caress, but they trailed for the briefest moment when he stepped away.

It raised goosebumps on Hermione’s skin, but left her feeling warm.

…

“So you’re saying,” said Harry, “that my animagus form will be a stag too?”

Hermione, Harry, and Ginny were sitting on the floor in the library, their backs to one of the couches. Sirius sat across from them against the other couch, surrounded with piles of books. They had moved the coffee table away to give them all room, as Sirius had warned them that they would want a clear space to fall over if they began practicing any partial transformations. They also had a cauldron at the ready in case anybody needed to vomit. The first few practices of various parts of the anatomical transformation were apparently the most unpleasant. They had been studying the basic mechanics with Sirius on and off for a week now, and Sirius had determined that they were ready to start trying out bits of the animal they thought might be theirs.

In response to Harry’s question, Sirius was shaking his head. “You’re actually the one I have doubts about,” he said. “Unlike an animagus form, a patronus can change, you see. My understanding is that it’s because your animagus is necessarily your real self, while a patronus can shift away from that if your conception of your best or happiest self becomes really fundamentally tied up with another person. There’s something sort of aspirational about a patronus; it takes into account how you feel about who you are, rather than just who you are. That’s probably why your mother’s patronus was a doe, though I obviously can’t be positive that her animagus form wouldn’t have been. But my guess is that your patronus might be a stag because of how your parents are tied up in your idea of yourself.”

Harry frowned. “Is your patronus something other than a dog, then?” he asked.

Sirius shook his head, smiling a little, though there was an edge to the expression. “I actually have some trouble casting it, at least since Azkaban, but it’s still been the same big dog the time or two I’ve managed it. ‘Fraid I know myself too well. I think the patronus form and the animagus form are the same the vast majority of the time, though. It’s just hard to know for sure because they’re both fairly advanced and limited magic. Anyway, no harm starting with a stag. You’ll know pretty quickly if it isn’t right.”

Harry looked half-annoyed, half-nervous. Hermione sympathized; it was very strange to think that, after all of the adventures they’d seen with his patronus, his animagus form might be something wholly new.

“So we should start with our patronuses as well?” said Ginny. Sirius nodded encouragingly, and she smiled.

It was all well and good for Ginny, reflected Hermione. _Her_ patronus was a majestic wild horse. Hermione’s was… she sighed.

“Something wrong, Hermione?” asked Sirius.

“I… I suppose I don’t see the connection to my animal. Aren’t they supposed to be–I don’t know, evocative of what we’re like?”

Harry was nodding. “I mean, they have to be, don’t they? By definition? And it makes sense–McGonagall’s a cat, Rita Skeeter’s a bug, Pettigrew’s a rat, Sirius is a dog…”

“Well, sure,” said Hermione. “Those make sense. McGonagall is fastidious and clever, and a little bit aloof. Pettigrew is disgusting. Sirius is sort of brooding but loyal, and-” Sirius was grinning, and Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “-and sort of growls a lot. And is excessively long-haired and food-motivated. Some patronuses would also make sense. Ginny’s a horse because she’s a little bit wild but fundamentally sweet. I had thought you’d be a stag because you’re noble. Even Ron makes sense as a terrier,”–it was occurring to her as she spoke that Sirius and Ron were both dogs, but she pushed the thought aside–“because he’s, um, good-natured and energetic, or Luna as a rabbit, because she’s so gentle and far-away. But _mine_ is-”

“An otter,” finished Harry. “What’s wrong with an otter? They’re sort of cute.”

Hermione frowned, less than convinced. “It’s… a rodent, Harry. A _water-dwelling rodent_. They’re not even domesticable, like rabbits.”

“Could be worse, as far as rodents go,” said Sirius. “Could be a ferret.” His tone was serious, and his face deadpan when she glared at him.

“Bet Draco Malfoy’s a ferret,” muttered Ginny. “Maybe you two can compare rodent notes, and talk about what it’s like to be small and evil. And fuzzy. And-”

“Oh, shut up,” said Hermione. “I know it’s not the worst animal, but… I don’t know, I was... it sounds stupid. I was hoping I’d be–an owl, maybe. Or a cat like McGonagall. Something with some… dignity?”

Sirius actually rolled his eyes. “You’re not a cat. And come off it, Hermione. Otters are adorable. Have you actually seen otters? They _hold hands_ while floating. They’re almost cartoonishly nice, for a wild animal. As far as intelligent and nice creatures go, you should just be glad you’re not a dolphin. _That_ would be tricky.” Hermione was at this point smiling at him a little bit abashedly. He stood up, somewhat abruptly, looking away. “Alright, anyway, you lot get to work. Your animals are what they are; you’ll like them by the end, I promise. In the meantime, I’m going to go see if Kreacher has any food down there.” He was halfway to the door already.

Hermione shook her head. “Typical dog.”

Sirius turned and looked down his nose at her. “Rodent.”

And then he left.

Hermione didn’t really mind. She was still picking apart the fact that, a few moments ago, she was fairly sure that he had called her adorable.

…

The weeks passed as Hermione, Harry, and Ginny practiced, and Hermione was forced to acknowledge fairly quickly that her animagus form was, indeed, an otter. Harry had settled, in the end, on something not very different from what he had expected–according to the research he’d been doing, his form would be an elk.

This pleased Sirius, though he was somewhat puzzled by how close it was to James’s form. When Hermione asked him about it, he agreed that this might be reason to think that the nature of a magical signature was passed on between parent and child. He didn’t have other examples of parent and child animagi to draw from, but he was tracking down some books on the subject at Hermione’s request. She was hoping that this might shed some light on whether her magical signature could be of any help in reconstructing her parents, but she didn’t want Fenshaw to know quite yet how deeply she was working with animagus magic. It might get the others, or Sirius in particular, in trouble. If the angle panned out, she would find a way to bring up the idea of magical signatures with Fenshaw from a different route.

In the meantime, as her animagus work could only progress so quickly and required most of her spare time, she had gotten Fenshaw’s permission to work with her parents via more official means. This meant that they did not remember the interactions, as they were usually brought in by Obliviators who, after a session, would erase the event from their minds entirely. Hermione had to keep setting aside her discomfort over that. It was necessary to keep the wizarding world as strict a secret as possible, and Wendell and Monica Wilkins wouldn’t have nearly as much motivation to be discreet about it as Ned and Phoebe Granger had had.

Hermione had been working with her parents in these sessions enough to determine that they were both favorably disposed towards her, more than to other Ministry employees that they were exposed to. It was difficult, though, to tell whether this might be something that she had unconsciously built into their minds during the Rementire process, or something that genuinely lingered from before. Perhaps not so much in their minds as deeper within them. Assuming that was even possible.

She was mostly frustrated with herself in all this, and in her inability to fully grasp the nature of a “magical signature.” She worried she was being too analytical with it all, in the same way that she had never been able to gain the slightest flicker of insight into Divination even once she had been grudgingly convinced that it was real. She might even be being analytical to the point that it was holding her back on the animagus process, compared to Harry and Ginny. Hermione hated not being able to control things like this. If she couldn’t count on her own abilities, what on earth could she count on?

Sirius kept telling her not to worry about the speed of her work on the transformation, and that it would slot into place on its own when she was ready. She had been talking to Sirius a lot lately, taking him up on his offer to be a “sounding board.” While he hadn’t necessarily unsnarled the difficulties in her projects at work, the talking had made one thing abundantly clear to her. She was not moving past this crush. At all. If anything, it was getting worse.

She knew what he smelled like, now, and could recognize the pace of his walk from other floors of the house. She knew which clothes were his favorites, and which foods. Their frenzied kiss from the night of her birthday had taken root in her dreams–and, if she was being honest, in her daydreaming mind as well–and grown into a host of fantasies. Sometimes, when he was demonstrating part of a transfiguration gesture to her, he would grasp her arm and their eyes would meet for split-second too long, and she would wonder, after they looked away, whether he was thinking about their kiss as well. He was still going on dates on a fairly regular basis, but, from the updates Hermione was gleaning (somewhat unwillingly on her part) from Harry and Ginny, it did not seem like any of the women were sticking. So far. 

Several days ago, she had decided that it was well and truly time to end things with Ron. Regardless of how things went with Sirius, she knew her heart was very much no longer with Ron. It was probably wrong of her to have weakened in her resolve the first time. Over-cautious at best, cowardly at worst. Her correspondence with Ron, while warm, had dried to a trickle again over the course of the month, and she was beginning to think that maybe Ron would see that it was the right thing for them to do as well. She hoped so. She didn’t want to hurt him.

He was going to be arriving home tomorrow evening, in time to go with all of them to a Halloween party being thrown by George on the premises of Weasley Wizard Wheezes. It was, according to Lee Jordan, going to be “ _legendary._ ” Weighing the options, Hermione had decided she needed to break up with Ron before the party, rather than after. If he was truly upset, the evening would be ruined in retrospect for him either way, and if she got it over with beforehand, he would at least have a warm and distracting gathering of alcohol, his siblings, and his best friend to console him. She didn’t need to go to the party herself, if it would make it better for him.

Her resolution made, she was now getting ready for bed on the night before the fateful day. Her increasingly giddy brain being what it was, this meant that she was thinking less now about Ron, and more about what she’d be free to do to Sirius when she had made the separation. Or free to do _with_ Sirius. She’d let fantasy get the better of her in the privacy of the shower, and now she leaned against the shower wall, catching her breath, knees trembling with the aftermath of her own pleasure. Merlin, she wanted to… kiss Sirius again. Soon.

She wrapped herself in a towel, pausing at the sink to toy with her hair in the mirror. She was looking fairly good these days, she allowed, somewhat critically. Her usual wavy mass of hair was currently slicked down to her head, dripping wet, and it emphasized how large her eyes were, and the graceful curve of her neck. Her skin was still a bit pink from the heat of the shower, and her cheeks rosy. Couple this with a firm chin, sweet mouth, and sparkling brown eyes, and she would probably call herself appealing. Adorable, even, if certain parties were to be correctly interpreted.

As she turned the doorknob to leave the bathroom, she was a bit startled by the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside. She paused, waiting to hear where they would go. A door creaked open at the end of the hallway, and then shut. That had been Sirius’s door.

Well, coast was clear now, at least. Though she almost wished that she’d opened the door a few moments sooner.

Her heartrate picked up tangibly when she stepped out to find that Sirius was, in fact, still in the hallway. He was leaning with his arms on the banister, looking down into the rest of the house with an unreadable expression on his face. The only light came from a small lamp in the hall below.

He turned at the soft sound of Hermione’s approach, and opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but then hesitated. For the first time ever, Hermione was very conscious that his gaze slid down and up, surveying her from naked calves up to bare shoulders and dripping hair. His expression had barely changed, but when he met her eyes, his look sent a thrill through her. At any other time, his silence would have been strange. In the dark hallway, late at night, it seemed natural. Inevitable, even. As if this was how they always looked at each other.

She found that she had drifted past her door, and was standing close enough to him that she had to look up to meet his eyes. 

“Hey,” she managed, through suddenly dry lips. She felt pinned by his gaze, like a deer in the headlights, and she couldn’t think what else to say.

“Hey, Hermione,” he said quietly. Neither of them was moving, though the space between them felt smaller to Hermione every moment. Their hands were resting beside each other on the banister, with the sort of bare whisper of space between them that was almost more intense than direct contact. Her eyes had flitted down to Sirius’s mouth–she knew already what his stubble would feel like against her face, how his hands would grasp her by the waist–and she could have sworn he had shifted closer, when his bedroom door swung open behind him.

Hermione almost jumped, stepping backwards quickly, and a woman’s voice said, “Sirius, are you coming?” The voice was followed by a blond woman, who leaned partway out of the door. She was wearing a dress that had half fallen off one of her shoulders, though she pulled it up with one hand when she saw Hermione.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “Um… Sirius?” She was looking at Sirius, as if for help, and back at Hermione. She had large blue eyes and a small, pretty mouth.

Hermione hated her intensely.

“Hey, Lina,” said Sirius. He gestured to Hermione as if this were a normal thing to do, saying, “This is my housemate, Hermione. She and her boyfriend, Ron, have the room down the hall there. I was telling you about them earlier. Hermione, meet… Lina.”

Sometime she hated Sirius a little bit too. A mask of jocularity had fallen over his expression, and he had stepped away, leaving a normal distance between them.

“So not the one who’s dating Harry Potter, then?” said Lina, looking somewhat less interested in the whole situation. “Nice to meet you, Hermione,” she added, with a small and unconvincing smile. She had drifted out into the hallway and was wrapping her hands around Sirius’s arm.

“Mmhm,” managed Hermione, with what was probably an even less convincing smile.

“Right, well,” said Sirius, looking faintly uncomfortable as Lina visibly twined her fingers with his and pulled him towards her. “’Night, Hermione.” He was shifting towards the door, with an air almost of wanting to shunt Lina out of her view.

“Goodnight, Sirius,” she said woodenly. And watched as Lina oozed out of the hallway, towing Sirius behind her.

He paused and looked back for the briefest moment before he closed his bedroom door. The look was dark, and flitted again from Hermione’s exposed legs and up the towel–which now felt very short–before meeting her eyes. The corner of his mouth quirked with just a hint of a smile, before he shut the door and was gone. 

Hermione resented that that thrilled her.

With resignation, and trying to ignore the brick of jealousy settling at the bottom of her stomach, she turned to her own door.

Much to her astonishment, it opened before she could reach it.

“Hi, Hermione,” said a red-eared Ron. “I need to talk to you.”


	12. Tricks, Treats, and Cat Ears

Chapter Twelve

Hermione sat down on the edge of the bed, looking up at Ron inquiringly. He was still standing by the door, which he had closed behind him.

He gestured at her towel. “Do you, uh, want to put on your nightgown? I didn’t mean I have to talk to you this–this exact instant.”

“I… sure,” said Hermione, rising again and going to the closet. Ron wasn’t meeting her eyes. Was he upset already? She hadn’t so much as hinted at her intention to break up with him yet, not to anyone. How could he possibly have an inkling of what was going on with her and Sirius? There wasn’t even anything _going_ on, at least outside of her own head.

Ron had turned his back when she let the towel fall to the floor and pulled her nightgown from its hook. This, more than anything else, proved to her that something was wrong. Usually she was the one shyly looking away.

“Alright,” she said, when the pale blue nightgown was hanging demurely to her knees. “What’s… up?”

Ron turned back around, and his expression was odd as he met her eyes. For all that he might, if the last minute or two had played out differently, have found her snogging another man in the hallway outside their bedroom, he looked as if she had caught _him_ doing something wrong.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and patted the blanket next to him. “Sit down,” he said.

She did, and he took her hand. He was at this point looking actively nervous. His expressions had always been so easy to read. “Hermione,” he began, looking anxiously into her eyes, “I’ve been thinking. For a long time, about this. And, I can’t help… thinking that you might agree. Or, um… hoping that you might. It’d be a little daft of me to _expect_ that you would. Anyway, it’s… high time I said it.” He looked like a man about to leap off a cliff into very deep water.

Hermione wondered, for a split-second of fear and confusion, if Ron was about to propose to her. That would be ridiculous. Wouldn’t it?

“Hermione,” he said, “I think we should break up.”

A gentle “Ron, I…” died on her lips, and she gaped at him, completely thrown. He was looking anxiously at her, searching her face for her reaction.

Finally, she managed, “I… agree. I think we should.”

They sat, staring at each other, and then Ron started to laugh. “You–you do? What? This is–uh, not how I expected this to go. I’m so glad you… think it’s the right move, ’Mione.”

Now Hermione was beginning to feel obscurely annoyed, for no reasons she could justify. Had he imagined he was coming here to break her heart? And why was he… laughing?

“I do,” she said. “I’ve… honestly been thinking it for a while, only I was trying to find the right timing to say so.” He still looked flabbergasted. “How did you think I’d react?” she added, trying not to sound accusatory.

He blinked down at her, and then glanced away, looking embarrassed. “Well, I mean, I thought it was probably clear to both of us that we’ve been… getting less romantic. But I wasn’t sure if you were sad about that. Or, you know, blaming yourself, or anything. Which,” he added hastily, “you shouldn’t. At all. It’s just that we…” he trailed off, apparently searching for the words.

“…work better as friends?” suggested Hermione.

He nodded, looking relieved.

Hermione hardly knew what to say. This was… unexpected. She almost felt guilty again now. Had Ron been _putting up with her_ for weeks? Months? “Well,” she finally managed, “Harry and Ginny are in for a shock tomorrow morning.”

“Um,” said Ron, his expression turning awkward all over again. “About that. I’m actually heading back to Paris tonight. I, uh, had been thinking that you wouldn’t want me here. Or at the party tomorrow. So I’ve got–er, other plans now.”

“That’s… sensible of you,” said Hermione. She couldn’t fathom why he still looked guilty when he patently hadn’t hurt her. Or her feelings. Despite whatever hazy resentment was now attempting to rear its head in her heart. This was what she had _wanted_. Ron not wanting her anymore made everything so much simpler. Cleaner for everybody. Better.

Why were they sitting so far apart, and as stiffly as if they were having a fight?

“That’s good,” said Hermione more forcefully, standing up. “I’ll tell the others tomorrow, then, when there’s a good moment.” She was looking around the room, at everything but Ron. “Do you… want to move your things to a different bedroom?” She was over at the chest of drawers, opening the drawer currently filled with Ron’s spare winter clothes.

“Oh, that’s–uh, I actually have to head back pretty quickly,” he said, “and I don’t want to–wake the others up and bother them about house stuff, tonight at least. But, uh, sure. I’ll move them next time I’m back.” He had stood up as well, and was… hovering. “If that’s alright with you,” he added, almost too politely.

“Sure, whatever you want is fine with me,” said Hermione. She and Ron were standing on opposite sides of the bedroom, as if in some kind of cinematic standoff. She closed the dresser drawer with her foot.

“Alright,” he said. “Guess I’ll, um, head out. Then. I’m…” he paused, looking for words again, his expression becoming genuinely mournful. “Sorry, that we didn’t work out. We were a good thing, Hermione. I hope… that we can still be a good thing. In a different way.” His eyes were soft, and very blue.

“Ron,” she said quietly, “don’t be an idiot. Of course we can. You’re still,”–she firmly ignored a catch in her throat–“my friend. You always will be.”

He nodded, his expression almost grateful. “Good,” he said. He shifted, as if he was going to step towards her, and then turned instead to the door. “Well, I’ll… see you, ’Mione.” His hand hovered over the doorknob, and he looked back at her with earnest eyes. “Don’t stop writing.”

She nodded, and then he was gone.

Which was, after all, exactly what she had wanted.

She wished he had hugged her goodbye.

She waited a few moments, and then followed him out into the hallway. It was deserted, and even the lamp downstairs had gone out. She stood at the banister, the blackness pressing in on her open eyes. Pulling out her wand, she whispered “ _lumos_.”

The gentle glow at the tip of her wand was a shining blur, and she realized that her eyes were full of tears. She blinked them furiously back, and one escaped to trail down her cheek.

She then became aware of a noise, punctuating the silence of the dark house. A repetitive, creaking squeak. _Bedsprings_.

She shot Sirius’s door a glare that ought to have peeled its paint, and, whirling, she marched back into her own room and closed the door with more force than was necessary. She hoped they’d heard it.

She climbed into her bed, which now seemed very large, and pulled the sheets up to her chin. She turned off the light.

In the darkness of her room, she distinctly heard a quiet scrape, and a thunk, through the wall. She sat bolt upright in bed, grabbing her wand from the bedside table in one fluid gesture. “ _Silencio_ ,” she hissed, pointing it at her bedroom wall. And the door. And the window, for good measure.

She lay back down in bed, setting her wand on the night table again. And then she rolled over onto her side, tucking her knees up against her chest. She sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve. Her eyes were wide open, and her room was so dark that it didn’t make a difference.

Had she illuminated her wand, the glow at its tip would have, at this point, been far beyond blurry to her eyes.

…

Hermione arrived home from work feeling absolutely drained. She had spent the day helping Dorian, Priscilla, and Luna with the Veil project. Today, that had meant finishing the process of hand-coating all of the barrow stones with the potion that Dorian had been brewing for months. An undisturbed weekend would apparently give the coating time to infuse the stones.

Hermione was a bit frustrated to admit that she didn’t really understand what Dorian was doing. Not that Priscilla or Luna did either. The medieval wizard seemed to be working half from intuition on the whole project, and though he seemed earnest about trying to help, he hadn’t been able to provide Hermione with much of anything in the way of researchable sources for his magic. The connection of the barrow stones to death, at least, seemed clear. The potion, however, was baffling. Priscilla’s tears had gone into it, along with a host of other ingredients, in a process complex enough to remind Hermione of brewing the Polyjuice potion. In content, though, the potion reminded Hermione at times of the Draught of Living Death, and at other times of Amortentia, the powerful love potion. This was equal parts puzzling and troubling. Though, of course, the Veil itself was troubling, so Hermione wasn’t exactly… worried. Still, the feeling that she was failing to keep track of what Dorian was doing right in front of their eyes weighed on her. She had made sure to give Fenshaw a thorough report at the end of the day.

Upon getting home, she had slumped up the stairs and right to her library, which was mercifully deserted. She was now curled up on the couch with a mug of tea that Kreacher had left out for her. She was reading one of the animagus books, which was at least a distraction, if not a relaxation. They had agreed with Sirius that they would all attempt their transformations for the first time this weekend, and Hermione did not feel at _all_ ready. She had, it was true, managed every small component of the transfiguration that they had practiced. More smoothly, if she was being honest, than Harry and Ginny had. But she still didn’t feel like she understood her animal.

She was not left to this contemplation for long, however. Moments after the front door slammed downstairs, Ginny burst into the room. “Happy Halloween!” She was wearing a giant, pumpkin-colored sweater that somehow came off as highly attractive rather than making her look like a squash. Hermione was convinced that Ginny did that sort of thing through sheer force of will.

Ginny was waving her hands at her. “Hermione! Where is your holiday spirit? And where is Ron? We all need to start getting ready for the party! Do you have everything for your costume?”

Hermione blinked. “Well,” she said, “taking those one at a time–my holiday spirit is probably on vacation with my fashion sense and Quidditch skills, Ron is in Paris, and I don’t have a costume because I hadn’t been planning to go to the party.” Ginny blinked at her, deflating somewhat. Hermione added, as matter-of-factly as she could, “Ron and I broke up last night.”

For a moment, Ginny’s eyebrows rose towards her hairline. Then she plunked down on the couch beside Hermione and wrapped her arms around her fiercely. Hermione hugged her back, feeling absurdly comforted at being enveloped in the huge orange sweater. Happily, she was at this point past the teary stage she had been in last night, and well into bitter resignation.

Ginny less so. “That boy,” she said somewhere above Hermione’s ear, “is more of an idiot than I’d thought, which is saying something. You alright?”

Hermione pulled back and shrugged. “Honestly, pretty fine on that front. I’d been feeling for a while that it was probably where we were headed. Don’t be mad at Ron.”

Ginny was glowering. “Don’t tell me how to treat Ronald. He’s _so_ –ugh. I should have seen this coming. Send the boy off to France, and he gets _all_ sorts of nonsense-” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re not torn up about it. That being said, I will absolutely _not_ have you sitting here alone while we’re all at a party, the night after my excuse for a brother broke up with you. Come to the party with me and Harry! George will be there for sure, and Lee and Sirius, since they’re officially attached to the place. And I’d be really surprised if Luna and Neville didn’t show. I think it’s supposed to be huge, we probably won’t know half the people there. Maybe you’ll meet a nice bloke and be able to get back at Ron via rumor network. Hermione the Heartbreaker, loose again!” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and Hermione rolled her eyes. “Please?” Ginny added more earnestly. “It’ll be fun, and I’ll help you figure out a costume! If you’ll let me,” and a gleam came into her eye as she spoke, “I’ll even do your makeup.”

Hermione eyed her. She was feeling more like shredding paper than like going to a party, but on the other hand… Ron might not be the only one she could get back at if she went to the party and hit it off with somebody. Sirius would be there, likely with the noxious Lina in tow. The woman had still been there at _breakfast_ , though Hermione had left for work before either Sirius or the blond had time to speak to her.

“Alright,” she said to Ginny, her decision made. “Do your worst.”

Ginny grinned a supremely wicked grin.

…

The party at Weasley Wizard Wheezes was visible from down the block. Lights flashed from the windows, currently orange and purple in alternation, and they could hear the bass line of the music almost as soon as the store came into view. Fog was billowing from the open doorway and onto the line of costumed party-goers that stretched out in front of it for quite a ways. Hermione hoped the store knew what they were doing with the party list.

There were times when it was good to be friends with someone as famous as Harry Potter. People started to give them dirty looks as Harry, Ginny, and Hermione walked past the line, but as soon as Harry was recognized, people seemed actively excited to let him pass them. Ginny pointed out to Hermione, sotto voce, that this was probably because Harry was considered an attraction rather than a guest.

Passing through the doorway and the fog was like entering another world. The store had been filled with glowing, sparkling orbs that were floating through the fog-filled air; it took Hermione a moment to process that these were jack-o-lanterns that had somehow been faceted and made to glitter like disco balls. Glowing tree-branches were being projected onto the fog at intervals, and the whole store floor had been cleared out as a dancefloor except for a stage featuring a live band–sporting an almost alarming amount of sequins, as well as electric guitars–and a few plinths, upon which silvery-white ghosts were dancing and gyrating. Hermione was amazed that they had managed that particular setup; there had to be some serious bribery involved in persuading ghosts to do something so undignified.

Over this psychedelic wonderland reigned George, who was standing on a floating orange booth not far from the door and apparently directing the havoc that was unfolding around them. Priscilla, who seemed to be dressed as some kind of dryad with leaves in her hair and a long, Grecian robe, was perched on the edge of the booth by George’s feet, her legs dangling off the side. Taking in the way that Priscilla gazed up at George, and the somewhat proprietary angle to her posture, Hermione was pleased that Sirius, at least, would be safe from that quarter tonight.

Following Priscilla’s gaze up to look at George properly, Hermione had to stifle a chortle. Harry and Ginny, who were still taking in the decorations with awestruck faces, appeared not to have noticed yet, so Hermione tapped them on the shoulders and pointed. Ginny began to cackle, and Harry put his head in his hands.

George was dressed as Harry Potter: dyed-black hair, round glasses, and lightning scar. As larger props, a broom and a Gryffindor tie. He had completed the look with a glittery blazer covered in a garish pattern of lightning bolts and golden snitches, with a giant “HP” on the back that actually seemed to be glowing. It was… incredible.

Hermione, Harry, and Ginny wove their way through several knots of people and fetched up at the base of George’s booth. Priscilla smiled at them, and Ginny leaned forward to poke George in the ankle.

“Oy!” he looked down, and then grinned at them in recognition. “Ginny! And George! Welcome to the party!” He crouched down so that he could talk to them at a more normal volume. “Sorry, Harry,” he said, looking like he wasn’t sorry at all. “Absolutely couldn’t resist when Ginny mentioned the idea a while back. Happy to charm your hair red in exchange. Though that might confuse people, as it doesn’t have much to do with your costume…”

Hermione had to agree. Ginny and Harry were dressed as mummies, but their bandages were rather artistically spaced–possibly as an excuse on Ginny’s part to show off her midriff and Harry’s biceps–and left their heads and hair completely visible. Harry was grinning up at George. “Don’t tempt me,” he said. “At that point I could hide my scar and start telling people you’re the _real_ Harry.”

“Fair point,” said George. “Anyway, nice costume, mate. You guys here alone? I thought–” He followed Ginny’s look back and almost did a double take when he processed Hermione standing right behind Harry and Ginny. “ _Hermione?_ ” he said. “Merlin, I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re looking _good_. Not to say,” he ran a hand through his hair, looking almost flustered for perhaps the first time that Hermione had ever witnessed, “that you don’t always look good. But I had–uh, not been giving Ron enough credit. Where is he?”

“Not coming,” said Hermione loudly, so that George could hear her over the music. “He was needed for a work thing!” She had decided earlier that she didn’t want people to know about the breakup yet, and had explained to Ginny that she didn’t want to have to spend the whole party telling everyone who knew her about it, rather than having fun. Which was part of the reason. It was also that she… wanted to control who knew when, she supposed.

“Well,” said George, “You’ll show _him_ to miss a costume party. We’ve got a photo booth in the other room, just so you know.” And George actually winked at her, before standing up again and sending off a spell that changed the color of the lights to green.

Hermione was pleased. If even _George_ , who had always treated Hermione like an extra younger sister, had reacted like this, Ginny’s revenge-via-outfit plan was off to an excellent start. And, she had to admit, Ginny had really outdone herself. Hermione was dressed as a black cat, partially because this consisted of components that Ginny had been able to find on short notice, and partially because it was the least Hermione-like outfit that she had been able to persuade Hermione to try on. (They had compromised down from a ghost at Hermione’s end and a slutty mediwitch at Ginny’s.) Hermione was wearing a black corset-like top that laced up the back over her bare skin, and a velvet pencil skirt that hugged her hips and didn’t quite go as far down as she would have liked; both were Ginny’s clothes, hit with a subtle shrinking spell to fit Hermione’s shorter frame. This paired with high-heeled, fur-lined boots, and the necessary ears and tail (which had made Harry laugh, thinking back to second year, once he had gotten over the overall impact of the costume). All of this combined with Ginny’s excellent hair and makeup skills to make Hermione look, as George had blurted out, almost unrecognizable–all big dark eyes, hourglass waist, and long, bare legs. The word Ginny had used, sounding distinctly proud of herself, was “sultry.”

Wishing George luck with his role as the Chosen One, Ginny and Harry ventured further into the party, and Hermione trailed after them. Most of the people surrounding them were only faintly familiar–students from years above them at Hogwarts, wizards and witches Hermione thought she recognized from other parts of Diagon Alley. Madame Malkin was cutting a surprisingly spry figure on the dance floor.

She did spot Luna and Dorian, once they had passed under the stairs and into the far half of the store, which comprised a smaller and somewhat moodier dance floor, as well as the bar. The pair were hard to miss, as they were one of a handful of people floating far _above_ the dancefloor, apparently under the influence of some charm. Hermione hoped they had done it on purpose. They were half-swimming, half-dancing, and they both seemed, fairly appropriately, to be dressed as some kind of pale bird. They looked, in any case, delighted with their situation. Hermione waved back up at them, pretending not to notice their gestures inviting her to come up and float with them.

Harry and Ginny disappeared into the crowd at the edge of the bar–Harry apparently intending to use his fame for personal gain on this line as well–but Hermione lingered at the edge of the room. She spotted Sirius before he noticed her. He was walking down the staircase not far from her, looking out over the crowd. For a few moments, Hermione thought he wasn’t wearing much of a costume. Then he turned, and she realized he was wearing old-fashioned formalwear–a dark, embroidered waistcoat and jacket, with a red cravat. Hermione had a feeling she had seen the pieces somewhere in the attic at Grimmauld Place. She wondered if it was a literary or historical reference. That was what she would have done, if she’d had time to plan a costume. It looked, in any case, absurdly good on him. He had combed his long hair back but left his cheeks shaded with their usual stubble, which Hermione had a weakness for. Walking down the curving steps with a hand trailing on the banister, he looked every inch the effortless aristocrat. Like something out of a Victorian novel.

He finally caught sight of Hermione, and stopped mid-step. The expression on his face, then, and the corresponding jolt in Hermione’s stomach, were distinctly not Victorian novel territory. He took in every inch of her costume, landing finally on her eyes, and gave her a slow smirk. Feeling a sudden flush of exhilaration–power, even–Hermione smirked back. And gave him the sort of coy half-wave that she wouldn’t dare to when dressed as herself.

He had started down the steps again when he turned his head at a signal she couldn’t see. A moment later, _Lina_ trotted into view down the steps behind him. She seemed to be dressed as an angel, in fluffy wings and a white dress that barely reached her thighs. When she saw what Sirius was looking at, she waved at Hermione as well, with a disgustingly bright smile.

Hermione tried to smile back–it might have come out as more of a sneer–and headed for the bar before they could reach her. She planned to be careful not to get as actively drunk as she had on her birthday, but a drink or two was certainly on the agenda. She’d earned it. By the time Sirius and Lina had reached the floor, Hermione had a gin and tonic in hand and was in conversation with a wizard who had introduced himself to her spontaneously. He wasn’t her type, but he was tall, blond, and handsome. If anything, he reminded her of Cormac McLaggen. Which was perfect. She could tell, out of the corner of her eye, that Sirius kept shooting them looks. So she was careful to laugh at all of not-Cormac’s jokes, and she even delicately rested her fingers on his arm a few times.

He eventually became a little bit too encouraged, however, and she was forced to extract herself from his enveloping arm and flee to another part of the bar, on the pretext of getting a new drink. Lee Jordan, who was bartending, took in her expression with a grin. “Hiding?” he said. She nodded, trying to subtly keep her back turned towards not-Cormac. “I’ll take a very long time to figure out how to make your drink, shall I?” said Lee, and Hermione smiled at him gratefully.

She felt a hand brush her shoulder, then, and she turned, with some trepidation, to find that Sirius had materialized behind her. And Lina, unfortunately, behind him. Hermione plastered on a dutiful smile.

“Happy Halloween!" said Lina. “Any chance you could ask the bartender for a vodka cranberry for me? It’s so hard to get through this _crowd_.” She leaned her hands on Sirius’s shoulder, as if that would somehow help with the crowd. He didn’t react. When Hermione turned back from passing the order on to Lee, Lina added, in a sugary voice, “Thanks! And, uh, could you remind me of your name?”

“This is Hermione,” said Sirius absently, “and the bartender is Lee.” He was eyeing the ears attached to Hermione’s headband, and he actually reached out to flick one of them. “I thought,” he said, in a tone of amusement, “that I’d told you you weren’t a cat.”

Swatting his hand away, Hermione allowed a corner of her mouth to tilt up. “Just shows what you know.”

Lina, looking confused, tapped Sirius on the shoulder as if for explanation, and he shrugged. “Inside joke. It would be a long story.”

Hermione almost–almost, but not quite–felt a twinge of pity at Lina’s expression. “I actually _have_ been a cat before,” she supplied, half as a distraction. And possibly because she wanted to show off. “At least, mostly a cat. There was an incident with a Polyjuice potion, a few years back.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “How on earth did you end up using a Polyjuice potion to look like something other than a human? And how come I haven’t heard about this?”

“Hey,” said Hermione, “Cut me some slack. It was second year, and getting the hair from a Slytherin without her finding out was a lot to manage on top of making the damn potion. I didn’t think to test whether it was really hers.”

Sirius was beginning to look delighted. “Back up. You were making a Polyjuice potion in _second year_ , and using it to look like an unsuspecting Slytherin?”

“Well, several unsuspecting Slytherins. Harry and Ron broke into the Slytherin common room as Crabbe and Goyle to interrogate Draco Malfoy about the Chamber of Secrets.” Hermione blinked. “Crazy to think that that seems sweet and innocent now. I would have gone as well, if I wasn’t… a cat. That was an interesting one to explain to Madam Pomfrey.”

Sirius was grinning. “Hermione Granger, remind me to consult you next time I’m planning a heist. I keep underestimating your criminality.”

“You’re falling for the good girl routine, then,” said Hermione. “If we’re being honest, though, I only do half of these things because I want to learn the magic. It was all about the Polyjuice, deep down.”

Sirius was shaking his head, looking amused, though whether about the potion or about her “good girl” comment, Hermione wasn’t sure.

“Sorry,” said Lina, looking confused, “but how would Polyjuice potion help with a heist?”

There was a small silence. Sirius’s dumbfounded expression was what Hermione suspected her own face looked like.

“As… a disguise,” he finally managed. “Because it makes you look like someone else?”

“Oh,” said Lina. “That makes sense. I thought you could only change looks with transfiguration, but Potions is even more gross. I’ll stick to being the looks on the heist.” She struck a pose, pursing her lips cutely.

“I’m sure,” said Hermione, not quite able to stop herself, “That you and Sirius would be the _perfect_ team.”

Lina simpered, but the look Sirius leveled at Hermione showed that her bone-dry tone had hit home.

“That’s so sweet,” said Lina. “You can still be the brains. Sirius has the brawns covered. Where’s your boyfriend? We could have a whole squad!”

Hermione couldn’t… be in this woman’s presence a moment longer. “Why don’t I go look for him?” she said, a bit acidly. “I’m sure I’ve got a boyfriend somewhere.” She turned, abandoning her drink, and had taken off for the stairs before Sirius or Lina could do more than blink. Idiot woman. What was Sirius _thinking?_

It was darker at the top of the stairs, rows of shelves cordoned off by a string of twinkling lights that directed partygoers to the stairs at the other end of the long room, leading back down to the main dancefloor. This, apparently, was where the inventory was living while the party went on below. As good a place as any to escape. She was really much, much angrier than Lina’s question had warranted. Though it had… stung, a bit.

Hermione lifted the lights and ducked under into one of the side aisles, which was where Sirius found her a moment later. He had apparently followed her up the stairs.

“You… alright?” he said. He looked wary.

Hermione glared at him. “I’m _fine_ ,” she said, shortly. “How’s _Lina?_ ”

Sirius crossed his arms. “What’s the idea, Hermione? Do you have a problem with-”

“With you?” suggested Hermione. “With that shining example of womanhood downstairs?”

Sirius looked annoyed now. “I never said I was keeping her. What’s the issue?”

Hermione gaped at him. “She’s… Sirius, she’s _awful_. Far be it from me to tell you who you can and can’t date, but you could at _least_ have the decency to date a woman with some excuse for a brain, even if you aren’t-” She cut herself off, a little bit furious now. She wondered if her gin and tonic was getting to her.

“What?” Sirius was looming closer, the look on his face half-angry and half-challenging. “Even if I’m not _what_?”

Hermione threw up her hands. “Even if you’re not interested in _me_. I know we’ve been pretending that that time we kissed didn’t happen, but I should think it was pretty damn obvious that I had a crush on you for a while there, and it’s not like I expected anything from you, but-”

Sirius looked outraged. “Hermione, what are you talking about? You were _horrified_ when we–you practically fell over trying to get away. I’ve been thinking that we’d just figured out how to be friends again-”

Hermione cut him off indignantly. “Horrified? I climbed into your _lap_ , Sirius. I only stopped because I came to my senses and remembered that I _had a boyfriend_.”

Sirius was staring at her. “Had?”

Hermione hesitated for a moment. “Ron and I broke up yesterday.”

Sirius looked like she’d slapped him. “And you’ve been keeping this fact to yourself because…”

“ _Because_ ,” said Hermione, her voice rising, “I didn’t want to cast a damper on anyone’s _night_. My own, of course, but I’d also hate to throw a pall on your exploits with that _delightful_ specimen down-”

Sirius seized her face in his hands and she stopped talking. “You,” he told her, “are deeply infuriating.” Then he crushed his mouth to hers.

Hermione’s thought process promptly melted. Within seconds, he was pressing her up against the shelf behind them, and she was trying to hook a leg around his hip without knocking them both over. Their mouths were moving frantically, her arms were wrapped around his neck, and she was pinned by the solidity of his body. The fabric of his pants felt rough against the bare skin of her legs, which she liked. Still, she wasn’t _close_ enough.

She let out an involuntary noise of protest when he pulled away a bit, which made him smile against her mouth. He gave a slight nod down the aisle of shelves. “My office is down there.” He raised an eloquent eyebrow.

She pushed him away from the shelf, and he pulled her along by the hand. Their entrance to his office was delayed only by the fact that they found they had to pause and kiss each other again outside the doorway. His mouth had found her neck this time, and his hands were trailing up and down the skin of her back, exposed by the ribbons of her corset top. Hermione made him pause so they could actually go in only when she realized that she didn’t want anybody to hear her if she moaned.

They closed the door behind them, and Sirius almost immediately had her sitting up on his desk, the better to hungrily kiss her. Hermione liked this setup, as she could wrap her legs around his waist properly. He seemed to be encouraging the posture; his hands had found their way under her velvet skirt and around her backside, firmly pulling her closer.

Her own hands were moving through his hair, carding and caressing. When his lips reached a sensitive spot at the side of her neck and she felt his teeth against the skin, she gasped and her hands tightened. This made him growl, and he caught her hands in his for a moment and pulled back, his eyes dark. “No hair pulling.” He seemed to consider, and added, “Of my hair, at least.” This made her grin, until he kissed the expression off her face.

His hands were soon at the exposed back of her corset top again, her skin tingling in the wake of each touch. He began fumbling with where the ribbons were tied, and finally released Hermione’s mouth long enough to pull his wand out of his pocket and mutter a spell that made the laces come undone on their own. Hermione tossed the top aside, but held a hand against his chest to stop his advance. “What was that spell?” she asked.

He tore his gaze away from her lacy bra and rolled his eyes at her. “It’s just _relashio_. You utter geek.”

She grinned. “’S part of my charm.” Still fending him off with one hand, she pulled out her own wand and aimed it at his cravat. “ _Relashio_.”

She had only worked him down to his shirt by the time he pushed her hand aside and reclaimed her mouth. Sliding her wand back into her boot, she set to work on his shirt buttons by hand.

By the time she reached the end of the row of buttons, she was lying back on the desk, with Sirius half on top of her. Had she thought about it, she wouldn’t have been at all sure whether he was pinning her down, or whether she was locking him against her with the legs still wrapped around his waist. She wasn’t doing much thinking, though. As soon as she was able to pull the fabric of his shirt aside, she liked the feeling of the hair on his chest, coarse against her skin when he pressed down close enough. In the moments that her brain wasn’t being short-circuited by the sensation of his tongue in her mouth or the feeling of him on top of her, she ran her hands over his chest, and even slipped them under his shirt and along his back, trailing her nails. This earned her an appreciative growl, and a row of hard kisses down the side of her neck that made her gasp. He had just transferred his attention from her neck to her chest, running his thumb over her bra and the nipple he could no doubt feel through it, when the door to his office swung open.

Lina stepped in, and then stopped dead.

There was really no mistaking what was going on. Sirius stood up slowly, turning to shield Hermione partially from view. Probably for her modesty, as she was clutching her arms somewhat uselessly over her chest. She could still see Lina over his shoulder.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” spat the blond woman.

There was a dead silence. “Not really,” said Sirius.

“You–you utter _asshole_ ,” shrieked Lina. She pointed at Hermione. “And you _slut!_ ” Then she whirled and stormed out. Hermione hoped she wasn’t going to go make a scene somewhere else.

Sirius was standing, looking at the door, and Hermione scooted forward on the desk so that she could wrap her arms around his shoulders from behind. “I think,” she said in his ear, “that her question was rhetorical. About whether you were fucking kidding her.”

He barked a laugh, and turned back to Hermione. “I’m sure that’s what upset her. I’m devastated.” His tone was teasing. “However will I possibly go on?” His hands were resting on her waist now, where he was rubbing small circles with his thumbs.

“I can probably… offer a few suggestions,” said Hermione. The feeling of his fingers moving against her skin was overwhelming.

His face was mere inches from hers, and it was as if a new gravity was pulling them together now every time they were close. Not that Hermione was trying to resist. She extracted herself from their kiss when she noticed that the door was still open. “Sirius-”

He turned his head to see what she was looking at, and sighed. “Is anybody going to care very much, now that Lina’s gone?”

Hermione wrinkled her nose at him. “I’m shy.” She considered for a moment, and added, “I also really don’t want Ron to think that I was cheating on him. Which he will, if anybody finds out about… this, anytime very soon. It would really upset him.”

Sirius tilted his head. “Fair point. It’s also somewhat hard,” he allowed, “to come up with a counterargument when you’re being all…” Hermione’s arms were resting on either side of his neck, and she was running her fingers slowly through his hair. “Soft, and…” his fingers tightened briefly at her waist, “undressed, and…”

Pressing her advantage, Hermione leaned closer. “If you go close the door right now,” she breathed against his ear, “I will take off my bra.”

He was off and striding across the room.

As he reached the door, however, George’s voice sounded from the hallway. “Ah, Sirius! I was looking for you!”

Sirius stepped fully into the hallway, mostly closing the door behind him.

Hermione could almost hear the expression on George’s face in the pause that followed, as he presumably took in Sirius’s appearance.

“Sorry, hope I wasn’t–interrupting something.”

“No worries,” said Sirius. “Lina just left, we had a bit of a falling out.”

“Yikes. Left as in you two are done, or left as in you’re going to have to go do some apologizing?”

“I mean, it’s hard to be done when we never started anything official,” Sirius sounded annoyed, “Despite what she may have implied when I introduced you two earlier. But yeah, she’s gone.”

“Ah. Well, sorry mate, but I really need you to take your turn at the bar downstairs, then. Lee’s been waiting for you to tap him out.”

Sirius apparently had as much trouble as Hermione did in casting about for an excuse, because after a moment, he said, “Sure thing. I’ll be down in a minute, let me get my… jacket.”

George’s footsteps receded, and Sirius slipped back into the room.

He collected his costume pieces from the floor on his way back to Hermione, and he leaned into her embrace with an exasperated sigh, kissing the skin on her shoulder. “We will apparently,” he said against her neck, “have to revisit this situation later. I’ve been drafted.”

“It’s a shame,” said Hermione. “I do like my men dutiful, at least. Morally upstanding, and all that.”

He looked up to meet her eyes at this, and his expression sent heat flooding through her. “Morally upstanding?” He set his costume on the desk, so that he could grasp her by the waist again.

“Well,” she admitted, “That might have been a hasty choice of w-words…”

He was licking the swell of her breast above the edge of her bra.

He stopped and brought his face up to hers, their noses touching. “Hermione,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Note the door.”

“The… door?”

“I believe you made a promise, about me closing the door. And I am, after all, facing the thankless call of service, off to be my dutiful self…”

Hermione blinked into his eyes, blushing. “Well,” she said, “I certainly can’t ask you to keep your promises if I don’t keep mine.”

Sirius managed to tear himself away some moments later. They were both breathing heavily, and Hermione, blushing furiously but elated, was trying not to bring her arms up to cover her chest.

“Fuck,” said Sirius, “now I’m going to be hard while I’m bartending.” He was pulling his jacket on and buttoning his shirt at top speed. “I should go before George comes back to get me.” He leaned in to give Hermione a final, hard kiss before he left. “You might want to fix your makeup,” he told her, with a certain satisfaction. “You look like you’ve been ravished.”

…

As it turned out, they did not get to revisit the situation later. Harry, finding Sirius at the bar, had gotten into a long conversation with him about his parents’ death. Hermione had actually forgotten, until tonight, that Halloween was the anniversary of when it had happened. What a night for Sirius to have lost his closest friends, all those years ago. In any case, Harry, who apparently didn’t handle the combination of alcohol and emotion very well, had ended up in a bit of a state.

Sirius had apparated them both home, Harry’s arm over his shoulders. Ginny and Hermione had apparated behind, and Hermione watched the other three head up to the library. It was hard to feel resentful towards Harry, once she’d seen how pale his face was and how tenuously he was holding his composure together. He’d thrown up on the steps outside, apparently having held out until Hermione and Ginny arrived so that he wouldn’t accidentally hit their feet.

Sirius’s attention had been, necessarily, mostly focused on Harry, but the looks Hermione kept catching from him, on the sly, made her feel giddy. She almost felt as if this couldn’t be happening. She might honestly wonder, if her skin wasn’t still slightly sore where his stubble had scratched against her face. She kept touching her lips when nobody was looking, reveling in the feeling, wondering if she looked as smug as she felt. Harry’s getting drunk was probably the only thing that had kept Ginny from noticing the number Sirius had done on her makeup, as Hermione hadn’t done a very good job repairing it.

Ginny herself emerged from the library now, to find Hermione hovering on the stairs outside. She was looking a little bit tired, and she shut the door behind her. “You probably don’t want to go in, sorry. They’re deep in godfather territory, talking about Peter Pettigrew, and, I don’t know, what James Potter was like on dates… Harry’s calmed down a bit, but I felt like I was intruding. Sirius was giving the blow-by-blow of the night James and Lily died, before. Feels like this talk has been a long time coming.”

Hermione nodded, wide-eyed. “I’ll… go get some tea, then, and just head upstairs.”

Ginny nodded, turning to head up herself. She seemed uncharacteristically subdued.

Hermione paused her with a hand on the arm. “Ginny? I also wanted to say… thanks so much, again, for the costume. You’re an absurdly good friend.”

Ginny smiled, warm despite her weariness. “And you, Hermione, are absurdly deserving of friendship. Happy Halloween.”

They hugged, and then Ginny went upstairs.

Hermione followed through on her tea comment, mostly so that she could make another pass past the library door before giving up on getting to see Sirius. He seemed to be thinking along the same lines, for as she walked up–stepping just a bit more loudly than usual–the library door creaked open, and he stepped out, closing it behind him.

“Getting us tea,” he said, in a hushed tone so that his voice wouldn’t carry.

“Great minds,” said Hermione, reaching the landing and holding up her own mug as proof.

His mouth quirked in a smile. “Mind if I take that for a second?” he asked. She held it out. “Thanks.” He accepted the mug, and promptly turned to set it down on the steps.

This freed his hands so that he could wrap his arms around Hermione. It was the first gentle kiss he had ever given her, long and slow, and as far as she was concerned it could have gone on forever.

He broke away, finally, and said, “I do have to get that tea. Harry kind of needs to keep talking to me tonight.” The regret in his tone was palpable, and he wasn’t quite making a move to go. His arms had settled around Hermione’s waist, and hers around his neck.

Hermione smiled up at him. “You already know how I feel about you being dutiful.” He snorted, and she pulled his head down and kissed the tip of his nose.

Then he kissed her on the mouth again, and his hands slipped somewhat further down than her waist. She felt his teeth against her lower lip, just gently. Then he pulled back, with a sigh. “Temptress.” He let go of her, and picked up her mug. “Alright, I’m really going.” He handed the mug back to her, and let his hands linger on hers for just a few moments longer. “I’ll see you… tomorrow. Morning, unfortunately. Bright and early.” His eyes were dark, but he released her hands, and made a little shooing motion up the stairs.

Hermione started up, and turned back after just a couple of steps, unable to help herself.

He was standing, watching her go.

“Goodnight, Sirius,” she said, and wished she could say something more.

He smiled a half-smile that she was coming to recognize. “Goodnight, little cat.”

She liked that. She liked that a lot. With a sway in her hips, and conscious of his eyes on her back the whole way, she continued up the steps and out of sight.


	13. Sirius Has Ideas, Some More Useful Than Others

Chapter 13

The lingering effects of the alcohol from the party were all that saved Hermione from a sleepless night. As it was, she drifted off still overcome with the thought of Sirius, caught between frustration at their having been interrupted, and the giddy thrill of realizing that he wanted her too.

Her alarm the next morning came loud and early, and she had to stop herself from cursing it as she grabbed her wand from the bedside table and flicked a spell at the thing to shut it off. She sat up, though, as soon as she remembered what was happening today, and hauled herself to the bathroom. There was no way she was letting Sirius see her makeup-free, half-dead morning face. Particularly so soon after the most alluring possible version of her had finally won him over. Some anxious cover-up application and extended hair-fussing later, she was looking… passable.

The others were already partway through breakfast when she reached the kitchen. Sirius met her eyes the moment she walked in, and she slowed to a stop in spite of herself, caught. _His_ morning face was irresistible. Dark hair mussed and pushed back behind his ears, just carelessly enough that she wanted to fix it. Fix it mostly so that she could touch his face, which was cleaner-shaven than usual, and see what it would feel like. His gray eyes were lit with their usual spark of mischief, and he was giving her a slow half-smile. There were unspeakable things in that smile. Merlin.

Sirius pulled out the chair beside him, and Hermione came back down to earth. She hoped she wasn’t blushing. Ginny noticed when people blushed. And she wasn’t ready for Ginny or Harry to know about… whatever this was. Ron wasn’t the only one who might feel hurt if they suspected that Hermione had been cheating.

Doing her utmost to seem normal, she slid into the seat next to Sirius and began helping herself to some toast. “Morning, everyone,” she said. Had that sounded odd? She was very aware that Sirius was still looking at her from time to time. She was avoiding his eyes. Though she let her knee rest against his leg, so that he would know she wasn’t being aloof.

He apparently found this encouraging enough to slide his hand onto her thigh, underneath the table. She took a bite of toast and stared at the pitcher of orange juice. Harry was saying something, but Sirius had found the edge of Hermione’s skirt with his hand and was toying with it, his fingers moving gently along her leg. The gesture was more casually possessive than actively flirtatious. Only, she could feel every small motion against her skin.

Hermione realized, after a moment of staring blankly at Harry across the toast she was still holding, that he had asked her something. “Hm?” she said. “Sorry, I’m a little bit out of it. Think I overdid it last night.”

Harry grinned ruefully. “I have about zero high ground to judge you from on that front. Ginny says I almost vomited on all of you. Real sorry, not that I remember much of it.”

Hermione nodded, feeling like she was putting on a show. She felt obscurely like she should be the one apologizing to him.

“Anyway,” said Harry, “I was just saying that it’s a shame Ron won’t get to see when we all turn into our animagus forms today. Did he say whether he could make it over at all this weekend?”

Ginny was looking at Hermione meaningfully. It would seem that the time had come to tell Harry. Hermione had been quietly dreading this. As a silence fell after Harry’s question, Sirius took the opportunity to stand up, muttering something about going to get the tent from upstairs. He disappeared up the steps almost hurriedly. Probably wise.

Harry knew Hermione well enough to tell, in the pause, that something was going on. He was looking at her, his green eyes full of concern. He didn’t need to ask out loud.

“Harry,” said Hermione finally, “I need to tell you, and I’m sorry I didn’t say so before. I… wanted some time to process through it on my own. Ron and I broke up, a couple of days ago.”

Harry looked, if anything, unsurprised. His face was sad, though, and he reached across the table for Hermione’s hand. “You alright?”

Hermione nodded, squeezing his hand reassuringly. She was more than alright, at the moment. Not that she could say so.

Harry was looking at her searchingly. “You won’t… go, will you? I hope–” he cast a sideways glance at Ginny, who elbowed him to say whatever he was going to say. “I hope you know how much you mean to us, ’Mione. You’re still the best friend I’ve got. Not that Ron isn’t, too, in his… Ron way.” He smiled a little, and Hermione did too. Ron might be… well, Ron. But he was _their_ Ron.

“I just,” Harry continued, “want you to feel like you can stay here, regardless of what Ron does. My home is your home, while you want it. And I’m sure Sirius won’t mind.”

“Sure that I won’t mind what?” Sirius trotted back down the steps, a large canvas case balanced a little alarmingly over his shoulder.

“If Hermione keeps living here on her own,” Harry said. “She and Ron broke up, and I was just telling her that I don’t want that to change how she feels about home with us.”

Sirius heaved the canvas bag onto the bench beside the fireplace, which had the advantage of hiding his facial expression, before turning to look from Harry to Hermione. “Well, of course not,” he said. “ _Ron_ can leave, if he wants. Hermione’s bloody ours.”

Harry looked slightly taken aback, but Ginny grinned. “That’s more or less how I’d put it,” she said to Sirius.

Hermione was grinning like an idiot at all of them. “Nice to know I’m appreciated.”

Harry rolled his eyes at her. “As if you aren’t the most useful one out of all of us by about a mile. And probably the nicest.” Ginny nodded, as if to say that that was fair.

“Not to mention,” added Sirius, who was leaning back against the counter at this point, studying his nails, “that you’re the only one other than Kreacher who knows where all the antiques are, and that crusty growth certainly isn’t telling _me_. Short of some creative wandwork. Which I wouldn’t necessarily mind, of course. But,” he shrugged as if to let her fill in the rest.

Hermione was trying to glare at him, an effort somewhat ruined by her failure not to look amused. “Sirius Black, are you threatening to torture your house elf if I don’t stay here with all of you?”

“Hermione,” piped in Harry, at this point grinning too, “don’t put words in the man’s mouth. He’s only making you aware of how useful you are.”

“Yeah,” said Ginny. “You’re the best of us at antiques _and_ at keeping Kreacher pain-free. What we mean to say is, you’ve got talent. The sort of skills we _look_ for in a housemate.”

Hermione looked around at three identically innocent, considerate expressions. “Alright,” she said, “Shut up. I’m not moving out anytime soon. Now, if somebody else wants to be _useful_ , you could pass me the jam from the cupboard, so that I can finish this toast before we leave.” Sirius opened his mouth, wearing a certain expression Hermione knew, and she added, “Somebody _other_ than Kreacher. For Merlin’s sake, Sirius, you’re standing right next to it.”

He closed his mouth, and had the gall to wink at her. He did, however, produce the jam a moment later, hovering it over to her with his wand. So that he wouldn’t have to walk all the way over to the table. The expression on her face made him smirk.

When they had all finished their breakfast, and moved the dishes to the sink at Hermione’s insistence, they gathered in front of the fireplace, pulling on outdoor jackets. “Right,” said Sirius, “you three will have to link arms with me to Side-Along, which will be a little bit tricky, but it’ll be worth it when we get there.” He hoisted up the ungainly canvas case again, and looked at the three of them over it. “Hermione, it has recently come to my attention that you are useful. You can carry the tent.”

Not long afterwards, the four of them popped back into existence in a sun-filled meadow, and Hermione promptly dropped the tent case, which was approximately as tall as she was. It hit the ground with much more of an echoing crash than it seemed like it should make. Sirius only shook his head at her, looking amused, before waving his wand and levitating the case over to a patch of level ground. Another flick of his wand, and it unzipped itself and promptly unfurled into a huge, midnight-black, silken structure, worthy of a medieval battlefield. The Blacks, it would seem, went camping in style.

Sirius was looking at it with faint outrage. “Right,” he managed, after a moment. “Hermione, want to help me fix this thing? At some point… soon? I’m still not sure how you got rid of my mother’s wallpaper, and I have to imagine this will be similar.”

He certainly knew how to win his way back into her graces, after the stunt with the carrying case. He was also looking at her pleadingly, which, she discovered, she was powerless against. “Tomorrow,” she offered, trying not to look _too_ pleased. “Before we go home, once no one needs to be inside it.”

Sirius nodded. “It’s a… plan.”

She wondered if he had been about to say “date,” and she beamed at him before she remembered that she probably shouldn’t, in front of Harry and Ginny.

This was going to be a challenge.

A couple of hours later, she was feeling rather less like beaming. Sirius had them all sitting in the middle of the tent on the ground, which was covered in several Persian carpets that had been left where they were “for padding.” Hermione privately suspected that Sirius hadn’t worked out how to unstick them yet. The entrance flaps of the tent had been thrown open for easy exit, and sunlight streamed through, along with the fresh scents of plants and a nearby pond.

They were sitting with their eyes closed, trying to “rid their minds of distractions” and, at the same time, to “let go completely and sink into the animal.” This, of course, while simultaneously working the elaborate series of transfiguration spells that they had been practicing for weeks now, which at this point were supposed to feel second-nature.

Unfortunately for Hermione, this process did not seem to be at all like apparating, which had been her first hope. “Determination” and “deliberation” might be helping her to focus on otter thoughts, but they certainly didn’t seem to be doing much else. How could she “sink into the animal”? She wasn’t an otter. She didn’t have the faintest idea of how to feel like an otter.

Another frustrating half hour or so later, Hermione was torn from thoughts of seashells and why she should really try to like them by a commotion that gradually resolved itself into snorting breaths and whinnies, and the sounds of a large animal thrashing around. She opened her eyes to find, in Ginny’s place across the circle, a large roan mare, pushing herself to her feet and rolling white-edged eyes as she looked half-nervously about the tent.

Sirius, grinning broadly, made a gentle gesture to get her attention, and pointed towards the tent’s exit. Ginny’s ears pricked up, and her nostrils flared as she stared outside, seemingly transfixed. She took a tentative step towards the light, then looked down at her hoof in apparent surprise. She took another step, and a third. Then, raising her tail like a banner, she was off in a sudden scramble of hooves, cantering out into the meadow and neighing with delight. They saw her run back and forth past the entrance a few times, circling the meadow. She didn’t seem to be slowing down, only tossing her head from time to time and letting out another trumpeting neigh of joy. Her mane and tail, copper in the sunlight, flowed long in the wind behind her, and her hooves seemed scarcely to touch the ground once she had really gotten going.

Harry was staring out of the tent with an expression of total worship, following Ginny’s every movement. When he noticed Hermione looking at him, he actually blushed, as if he had been caught doing something private. Hermione couldn’t blame him. Ginny in wild horse form was speed and grace incarnate, as playful and as elegant as the woman herself.

And Hermione had to become a water-dwelling rodent. After a few moments, Sirius waved her and Harry back to their meditations, and they closed their eyes again.

It didn’t take Harry long to follow Ginny’s lead; perhaps her transformation had inspired him. In what couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes, a second thrashing of hooves and grunting broke the silence of the tent, and a huge elk climbed its way awkwardly to its feet. Harry didn’t seem to quite know what to do with the giant antlers splaying to either side of his head. He kept shaking them from side to side, trying to get a better look out of the corners of his eyes. This only had the effect of making the antlers swoop around dangerously in the air, to the point that Sirius put an arm out, urging Hermione to scoot further back with him out of the way.

Unlike Ginny, Harry seemed automatically focused on the exit once he had calmed down about his antlers. He stepped over, avidly sniffing the edges of the tent’s flaps, and the grass just outside. He took a few steps further out, snuffling along the ground, and then stood up suddenly very straight, his attention focused on something that Sirius and Hermione couldn’t see. Judging by the speed with which his head was turning, however, and the sound of approaching hooves, the object of his focus was not hard to guess.

Ginny came careening into view a moment later, and Harry jumped, skittering backwards and then loping away, only steps ahead of her.

Sirius rose to his feet and went to stand just outside the tent. Putting a hand up to shade his eyes, he seemed to be watching them, a grin suffusing his face. Ginny’s neighs were echoing around the meadow, and a loud splash a few moments later made it clear that at least one of them had found the pond. Sirius’s grin had faded, though, after a minute, and he was now leaning back against the tent’s magically solid entrance, crossing his arms. His face was taking on a kind of blankness that Hermione was coming to recognize.

He didn’t seem to notice her quiet approach until she slipped her arm up through his, leaning her head against his shoulder. She felt him turn his head to look down at her, and his opposite hand came over to toy with one of her curls. “Hello, little cat,” he said.

“Hello,” she said softly, and was surprised at how huskily her voice came out. She wrapped a second arm around Sirius’s, for good measure. She could feel his bicep, and faintly smell whatever musky scent it was that was uniquely him. She would have nuzzled in against his collarbone to get closer to it, if she were less shy. “They look like they’re having fun,” she said, nodding at Harry and Ginny, who were racing frantically around the far end of the meadow, beyond the pond. After a few moments’ observation, they appeared to be playing tag.

“Oh, they are,” said Sirius, sounding pleased with himself. “This place is amazing when you’re in animal form. We’re miles from any human towns, it’s all fresh air and bird sounds and… well, I was going to say dead frogs and animal tracks, but those are probably less exciting to them than they were to me.”

Looking up at his eyes, which were crinkled with amusement as he watched Harry and Ginny, Hermione couldn’t tell if he was joking. He seemed to have snapped out of whatever bleak contemplation had drained his expression before, though, which had been Hermione’s goal. She suspected that Harry’s antlers had sparked vivid memories of James.

Avoiding the potential pitfall of asking about the last time he’d been here, then, Hermione instead asked, “Is the animal… mindset so powerful, then, when you first transform?”

“A little bit,” Sirius said. “Though mindset honestly sounds too cerebral for it. It’s mostly just that you start to _feel_ everything in a skewed way–everything’s more physical and more intense, and your senses work so much differently. And you get these instincts and emotions that come out of nowhere you’re used to, all of a sudden. You adjust to it, though, once you’ve had some practice, and learn to tamp down the less human impulses.”

Hermione nodded against his shoulder. That made sense. It didn’t really help with the part she was stuck on, though. How could you think your way into senses you’d never had before? “I have no idea why I’m having so much trouble getting it,” she admitted quietly.

Sirius looked down at her in surprise. “Hermione Granger? Having trouble with a magical skill? Did I miss the part where hell froze over?”

She poked him in the ribs. “Be nice. I was rubbish at Divination, I’m not good at everything. And I genuinely have no idea what I’m doing wrong.”

He sounded more sympathetic when he said, “It’s legitimately a strange and difficult thing to do. Tell me about how it’s going–maybe I can help.”

She made the mistake, then, of looking up to meet his eyes. They were silver in the sunlight. He was half-smiling at her in a satisfied, mildly infuriating way he had. And it made her very aware that all she had to do to make the expression disappear was to lean forward and kiss him, had Ginny and Harry not been in full view across the meadow.

It might have been distracting details like these that prompted her, instead of offering a description of her process and her mental block, to look back into the tent, and then back at him. Licking suddenly dry lips, she raised an eyebrow, and was almost surprised to hear herself say, “I think I keep getting _distracted_. Do you want to… teach me?”

The look on his face confirmed that he’d heard what she was actually saying. He brought his hand up to cup her cheek, and ran a thumb slowly over her lower lip, watching her reaction. She let her teeth come up to touch his thumb, just lightly, and he stopped, holding his thumb exactly where it was, and looking into her eyes. Then, she softly touched his thumb with her tongue. “Right,” he said, his voice rough. “Into the tent, witch.”

She turned obediently, his hand on her back pushing her forward, and she continued on to the far end of the tent while he paused to wave the tent flaps shut with his wand. They stuck a bit, which irritated him. The tent apparently liked him about as much as he did it.

When he had managed to charm the entranceway into submission, he turned to find Hermione hovering several feet in front of the alcoves containing the tent’s built-in beds. She hadn’t been sure quite how bold she was feeling. She had, after all, used up rather a lot of her boldness already, in persuading him so bluntly to come inside.

Sirius had no such boldness qualms. He was over to her in a few short strides, and then his mouth was on hers, warm and insistent, and she barely noticed as he walked her backwards and they tumbled into one of the beds.

His kisses felt different from the night before, and when he released her mouth in order to focus on the part of her neck below her ear, she managed to hold on to enough coherent thought to murmur, “You shaved. It’s… gentler.”

He brought his head up to look at her, touching his nose to hers. “Better like this?” She blinked into his eyes, the words stuck in her throat as her face turned pink. She didn’t want to offend him.

Her hesitation, if anything, seemed to please him. He leaned in to kiss the side of her neck again, and murmured just against her ear, “Or do you want me be rougher again, little witch?”

A shiver ran across her skin, and she turned her head to catch his mouth with hers. She hoped she could convey sufficient approval through a kiss. After a few moments of tongue-tangling, she paused, panting, to pull her shirt up and over her head. Sirius’s hands readily followed the fabric up, skimming up her back, and she wound her arms around his neck, pulling him down and pressing herself against him. Just to make her meaning abundantly clear.

When they broke apart again for air, Sirius shifted onto one elbow so that he could look down at her. His eyes were dark, and he grinned, running a hand over his jaw. “I’ll keep the request in mind.” Hermione barely remembered what he was talking about–she was lost in the fact that his hand had moved from his jaw to her ribcage, and was now sliding up beneath her bra–but she smiled up at him a little bit dazedly, hoping that that was enough of a response.

He just smirked, and leaned in to kiss her hard on the lips, before pulling back again to watch her reaction while he moved his fingers over her breast, gently stroking the contours. She wondered if she looked as pleasantly overwhelmed as she felt. His knee was pushed up between her thighs, and she could feel against her side that he was beginning to be as aroused as she was. Her whole body felt electric, and attuned to his every move, and she had the hazy thought that she had never once responded to Ron quite like this.

Sirius moved his thumb against her nipple, then, in a way that made her gasp, which prompted him to start kissing her again. His kisses were hungrier than before, and far less gentle. She found herself shifting her hips, wanting to move rhythmically against his leg. An ache was building in her core, and when he slid his hand down and pushed her skirt up to her waist, she only angled her legs further apart for him.

His fingers moved softly over the thin fabric of her knickers, first exploring, next touching in a way that made her moan against his lips. Then he broke his mouth from hers, his breath ragged and his eyes full of heat, so that he could watch her face while he slipped the hand under the fabric and pushed a finger inside her.

Her brain at this point short-circuited, and she managed something that sounded like “ _oh_ ” when he slowly slid a second finger in as well, stretching her. Then he started to _move_ the fingers, rubbing above with his thumb, and she lost track of the noises she was making, only knowing that she wanted him to _keep– doing– this–_

His hand stopped moving and his lips froze against her neck at the sound of hooves thundering past outside the tent, and Hermione was brought back down to earth with a sickening lurch. The hooves continued on past and became distant again, but she felt Sirius’s irritated sigh. He trailed a couple of kisses up her neck, and murmured, “Shall I go figure out a locking spell for the tent?”

She was very conscious of his fingers still inside her; as exquisite as the feeling was, this no doubt made it very obvious to him when she stiffened. He removed his hand, prompting a small sigh from her, and he shifted up so that he could look at her properly, placing a very gentle kiss on her temple. “Talk to me, kitten.” His voice was warm, but his expression was searching.

She looked back apologetically. “I–it’s not that I _want_ to stop…” A certain smugness in his expression and the glance he shot towards his hand showed that he knew very well that she didn’t _want_ to stop. She took a moment to pull her wand out of her skirt and wave a quick cleaning charm at his hand, which seemed to amuse him greatly, before she took the hand in hers, twining their fingers. “It’s just–I think I just don’t want my very first time with you to be… sneaky. Sordid, sort of, and distracted. I probably should have thought this through sooner, but I feel like half my mind now will be listening for hoofbeats… And if they did come back to find the tent locked, we’d have to figure out some far-fetched-”

He pushed their intertwined hands gently against her lips, quieting her. His eyes were warm. “You don’t need to justify yourself, Hermione. If you want to hold off, we’ll hold off. I may not be known for my… caution,”–she snorted softly, and he narrowed his eyes at her–“as evidenced by the fact that I am currently in a bed with my godson’s beautiful…”–she was grinning now–“…twenty-year-old, know-it-all, _irritating_ best friend, with approximately zero plan beyond the fact that it has been occurring to me for months that I _want_ her–” Hermione had wound her hands up into his hair, and they somehow found themselves kissing again, before Sirius resurfaced.

“Have mercy, witch,” he said, half-pleadingly. Given the hardness she could feel against her thigh, she did feel mildly guilty. “The point I was getting to,” he continued, “before I got somewhat too pleasantly sidetracked, is that I’ve done a hell of a lot of waiting in my life, for an impatient man. You could call it an expertise, at this point. So take it for what it’s worth, when I say that I consider you very much worth the wait. I would far and away rather have you comfortable, Hermione, than have you now.” He took in her expression, and added, “…not that you should let it go to your head.”

She kissed him on the tip of the nose, which made him frown at her in a way she found adorable. “Sirius Black,” she said, “I am going to go outside now, but it is purely so that I don’t forget everything I was just saying and let you shag me on the spot.”

“…I do not know how to respond to that,” he managed, sounding somewhat pained, as she extricated herself from him, grabbed her shirt, and made her way out of the tent.

A little while later, Sirius found Hermione sitting under a tree not far from the pond, watching Harry and Ginny running around on the far side. He settled in a patch of sunlight on the grass beside her, without a word, and sprawled out with his hands behind his head. He took a deep breath, apparently enjoying the fresh air, and let it out with a sigh.

Hermione looked down at him in bemusement. His eyes were closed, and his face was… relaxed. It was different from how he had looked on the rare occasions she had seen him asleep. Sirius asleep still had a haunted look about him, his face creasing with lines of sadness that disappeared when he was awake and animated. Sirius lying in the sun, on the other hand, looked careless and open. It made him look younger.

His face twitched. “Hermione,” he said, without opening his eyes, “are you staring at me?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “How can you tell?”

He shrugged. “I can feel it. ’S maybe a dog thing.” He thought about it for a moment. “Maybe a me being paranoid thing, too. War instincts.”

Hermione continued to stare at him unrepentantly. “You know, for someone so concerned with who’s a dog and who’s a cat, you’re doing a remarkably cat-like job of stretching out and sunning yourself.”

He smiled lazily. “I like sunlight. Can’t stand cold and dark. Came across a sunscreen charm when I was abroad a couple years back. Revolutionary.”

Hermione nodded. She knew the one he meant.

“And anyway,” he added, “’S not just cats. Think of it as lion-like.”

Hermione snorted.

He opened his eyes to give her a properly disdainful look. “Scoff all you want, witch. You’re still the one staring.”

He had a point.

Hermione returned, somewhat reluctantly, to watching Harry and Ginny, and thinking through what it might be that they had figured out that she hadn’t. 

After a few moment, Sirius stretched out his foot to nudge her leg. “I seem to recall,” he said, “offering to help with your animagus problem. What have you been thinking about?”

Hermione sighed. “I barely know. I’ve been thinking about otters, and what they’re like. Trying to… I don’t know, focus on otter-level thoughts. Feel predatory about fish. It’s hard to feel really enthusiastic about it, though. How do I–I don’t know. How do I convince myself?”

Sirius was looking at her thoughtfully. “I think,” he said, consideringly, “that you’re going about it wrong. In a subtle way,” he added, seeing her expression. “What I mean is, you shouldn’t be trying to feel like you’re an otter. You should be trying to _feel_ like an otter.”

Hermione opened her mouth, beginning to feel irritated, and he held up a hand to stop her. “I know that’s not a helpful way to say it. Let me see if I can give an example. You said you’re trying to think otter thoughts, right? That won’t help. _Thinking_ is the wrong approach. You need to let go more, and let yourself _be_ it, or _do_ it. What are some of the things you’ve been thinking about?”

Hermione shrugged. “The fish thing. Hunting. Playing in water. Having an otter family.”

Sirius was nodding. “Right. So don’t think about hunting fish. Otters are predators. _Be_ hungry, and fierce. Don’t think about water–let yourself feel playful. Feel close to your… pack. Family. Whatever you call it for otters. Feel protective and bonded. They’re all things that are already true about you, Hermione. Otherwise it wouldn’t be your form.”

Hermione was frowning. “That… makes sense. I think. I suppose I’m just... I don’t know. I feel trapped in my brain. Everything I feel has thoughts attached to it. It’s how I work, as a human. How on earth am I supposed to feel so… simple?”

Sirius sat up, looking at her appraisingly. “Hermione,” he said, “When was the last time you did something just for fun?”

Hermione blinked. “Um… kissing you?”

Sirius smirked, but shook his head. “Doesn’t count. Too complicated, as a situation, and it has a kind of goal… inherently, to it.” His eyes had slid somewhat teasingly down the length of her as he said it, making his meaning clear. “I mean something for no reason at all. Just because it felt good, or made you happy. Something that didn’t make you think at all.”

Hermione cast about in her mind. “Um… redecorating the house at Grimmauld Place?” She already knew that that would not count either. She tried again. “…eating macarons?”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Better,” he said, “But not by much. Hermione Granger, I’m thinking that you need to practice being in a different mindspace.” He looked her over, running a hand over his jaw in thought. Then his gaze wandered around the meadow, and over to Ginny and Harry across the pond. When he looked back at her, there was a gleam in his eye. “Do you trust me?” he asked.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes. Usually. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Sirius was grinning. “You’re going to think you don’t like this, at first. But I’ll call Harry and Ginny over, and it will be a blast. You, Hermione Granger, are going to have some goddamn fun.” Then he raised his wand.

Before she quite knew what was happening, Hermione found herself flying through the air–what in _the name of Salazar sodding Slyther_ -

Until she landed in the pond with an almighty splash. She surfaced, treading water and spitting out several mouthfuls of pond, until she could gather enough air to shriek, “Sirius Black, my SHOES are lost in several feet of MUD, and getting my clothes soaked is NOT MY IDEA OF-”

The rest of her words were cut off as she was submerged by a wave announcing the arrival of Harry and Ginny, who had thundered joyfully in at the far end of the pond. Sirius, looking disgustingly pleased with himself at the whole situation, was pulling off his shirt and followed them in a moment later.

Ginny, when she got close enough that Hermione started paddling away from her hooves somewhat frantically, submerged and resurfaced next to Hermione in her human form. Her face was smudged with mud and she was positively glowing with merriment. “Hermione,” she said, “What on earth are you doing in this pond?”

Hermione spat out more water, working to stay afloat, and brushed a piece of pondweed off of her forehead. “Sirius _bloody_ Black threw me in. I was asking for help figuring out my transformation, and he says he thinks I need to have fun.”

Ginny looked delighted. “If I didn’t know any better…” She paused, looking at Hermione appraisingly.

“What?” said Hermione, irritated.

“If I didn’t know better,” said Ginny, “I might think he was flirting with you.”

Hermione gaped at Ginny, who broke into a peal of laughter at her expression. “Oh, calm down, Hermione, I’m joking. Mostly. You should see your face.” She submerged to avoid the splash Hermione sent her way. “And anyway,” she said, resurfacing, “He’s probably right.”

“Who’s probably right?” said Sirius’s voice. Hermione and Ginny turned to see him approaching, being towed closer by a solid grip on one of Harry’s antlers. Harry was valiantly paddling for both of them, large hoofed legs gliding through the water below.

“You are,” said Ginny pleasantly. “Hermione _could_ use some fun.”

Hermione was glaring at him. “Sirius Black,” she said, “I will have you know that my _favorite shoes_ are currently lost in the mud at-”

Sirius was still looking pleased at Ginny’s praise, and he cut her off with an, “Oh, come on, Hermione. Your _shoes_? Are you really-”

He stopped, looking worried, when he realized that Hermione had submerged.

“You should probably flee,” said Ginny, cheerfully. “She has her wand out.”

With a muttered “sorry” to Harry, Sirius unceremoniously kicked off from his godson’s currently immense side and was off in a hasty streak under the water. Hermione surfaced a moment later, next to a newly human-shaped and indignant Harry, who was yelling, “Oy! Friends don’t kick friends, Sirius!”

All the way across the pond, a dark head surfaced slightly, in the shallows. Like a crocodile. It watched them warily through canine eyes. A tail emerged a moment later, wagging at them enthusiastically.

Hermione was muttering angrily under her breath. “Of all the show-off, inconsiderate, _immature_ …”

“Yup,” said Harry, “He’s being a smug git. Your shoes really stuck down there?”

Hermione nodded. “I’ll dig them out with an _accio_ later, but they’ll be a nightmare to clean.”

Ginny had swum over to them, and they were all three looking over at Sirius. “You know, Hermione,” she said, pitching her voice quietly, “I’ve always found revenge to be a fun pastime. Since, you know, the point of this pond stuff is… having fun.”

Harry seemed to catch her gist, and he grinned at Hermione. “’Mione,” he said, “I would like to take this moment to point out that Sirius left _his_ shoes lying on the grass. Up there, on the hill.”

Hermione smiled at the two of them. “Have I mentioned recently,” she said, “that you two are _extremely_ good friends?” She looked back over towards Sirius.

His tail had slowed to a somewhat nervous wag.

Several watery adventures later, Hermione was forced to admit to herself, rather reluctantly, that Sirius had been right. She was having more fun in one sun-filled afternoon than she had had in months.

It felt amazing. And she hadn’t had to _think_ about any of it. 


	14. Animal Natures

Chapter 14

“Are you sure you’re… good on your own, Sirius?” Harry’s voice was dubious. “She looks…”

“Relaxed?” That was Ginny. “Blissful? Free of the existential angst that normally preys on her overly educated soul?”

“Like somebody gave her a love potion for grass and then Confunded her,” finished Harry. “I’ve never seen her like this.”

Hermione, without opening her eyes, lazily waved her wand, sending a set of gold sparks shooting in Harry’s direction. A small yelp confirmed her aim. She was lying in the thickest patch of meadow grasses that she had been able to find, her bare legs and arms extended, the late morning sun glowing red through her closed eyelids as it washed over her. She could imagine that she was completely alone, that the grass that rose fragrantly around her head was the edge of her little patch of the world, and the small white butterfly making its way around the flowers her only companion.

Or at least, she had been able to imagine that before the others clomped out of the tent and Harry started talking.

Sirius’s voice was a low, amused rumble. “I think I can handle it. I have the faintest inkling-” there was a scuffle as feet avoided the second set of sparks Hermione sent their way, “-that she may just want to be left alone.”

“You don’t say,” was Ginny’s contribution.

“Is it just me,” said Harry plaintively, “or has she been getting meaner recently?”

“Harry.” Hermione could almost hear Ginny taking him condescendingly by the arm. “Gentle Harry. Do you remember–now think hard–any of the _other_ times that Hermione hasn’t been great at something or had it go the way she wanted? Storming out of Divination class? Making you get rid of the Half-Blood Prince potions book? Seeing Ron snogging Lavender and then sending those birds-”

“Alright, alright,” Harry was agreeing hurriedly, perhaps noticing that Hermione had raised her wand arm again. “Good point. We’ll leave you alone so Hermione can-”

“What happened with birds?” Sirius sounded eager. Hermione was starting to become actively annoyed. She had been getting _so close_ to really emptying her mind.

“We’ll tell you back at the house,” said Harry, whose good judgment seemed to be kicking in. “Otherwise you might find out sooner than any of us want.” He raised his voice. “Bye, ‘Mione! Please don’t hex us, we’re going!”

Hermione fluttered her fingers in a goodbye wave, and lowered her arm. There was a small _pop_ , and then a second, and Harry and Ginny were gone.

Sirius, demonstrating remarkable wisdom, walked off out of earshot without another word, and Hermione was left in peace.

Just her, the grass, and the sun. And the wind. And the water of the pond, sloshing. And a few bees, nearby. Bees were… fine. She could ignore bees.

She concentrated on her breathing, trying to sink into a realm of feelings inside her, rather than details outside her. They had an unfortunate way of continuing to intrude, the longer she tried to empty her mind of its mundane chatter. First, a twig was poking into her back at the wrong angle. Then her leg was itching, and she opened her eyes in time to brush an ant off of it, feeling faintly disgusted. She slumped back, covering her face with her arms, then removing them in frustration. The sun felt too hot now.

She gave up. “Sirius?” She hoped she didn’t sound like she was whining. “Sirius!”

Footsteps in the grass announced his approach, and a face leaned into view above her. “You called?” His upside-down face looked amused.

Hermione frowned up at him. “What am I still doing wrong?”

His face disappeared, and he settled to the ground behind her head. His fingers slid into her hair, which was warm from the sun, and began winding through it and rubbing against her scalp. Soothingly, but thoughtlessly, as if he simply liked to touch her. “Tell me how it’s been going.”

Hermione turned her head, giving him better access. Could this be what it felt like when people petted Sirius in dog form? Maybe there were perks she hadn’t considered to being in animal form. Softness and sensation. A thousand gentle whispers as someone ran a hand through your fur. She lost her train of thought. “Mmmmph.” His fingers slowed, and she opened her eyes. “Don’t stop, that feels incredible.” 

There was a smile in his voice. “Falling asleep definitely isn’t the way to transform, for the record.”

She wrinkled her nose. “At least I’d be able to manage that. I’ve been doing what we talked about–not thinking about otters, just thinking about ways I already feel that might be in the same… spirit. Thinking about people I feel protective towards, things that are fun. I just can’t seem to keep it going. Or get… _deep_ enough? Does that make sense? I keep coming back to where I am right now, and details like what the pond sounds like. Or what I’m going to have for dinner, or a report I need to write. Or…”

One of Sirius’s hands still moved gently against her scalp, and he was brushing the hair back from her forehead with the other, delicately tracing the line of her eyebrow. When his finger moved down her cheek, and ran softly over her lower lip, she smiled against it. “You’re not exactly helping on the distraction front, Sirius.”

“Stop being cute, then. It’s not _my_ fault you’re all sleepy and sun-soaked.”

“Arguable.” Hermione sat up, with a sigh, and turned to face him.

He was looking at her darkly, unrepentant.

She crawled closer, settling on her knees and taking his face in her hands. His cheeks were rough with stubble this morning, just as she liked best, and a lock of dark hair had fallen forward and into his eyes. She tucked it back behind his ear.

“Sirius Black,” she told him, “I very much want to be distracted by you,” his hands were sliding around her waist, pulling her closer, “but, I am wired in such a way that I will be _very_ upset with myself if I don’t figure this animagus thing out. Today, preferably. And I need to be _undistracted_ until I make that happen.” He had gathered her close against him, at this point, and she could feel his mouth soft against the side of her neck. He let out an irritated sigh, and she relented just a little, adding, “So I’ll kiss you once, properly, and then get back to work. Deal?”

There was a challenge in his eyes when he pulled back to look at her. “Deal,” he allowed. He tilted her chin up, and, ever so gently, pressed his lips against hers. The kiss was almost teasingly chaste until she, hoping for more, opened her lips further and pressed closer against him. He took the invitation for all it was worth, then, deepening the kiss and pushing her back into the meadow grass, his tongue moving against hers. His mouth tasted of tobacco and sin, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to stop him when the first kiss slid seamlessly into a second, and a third. She could feel his teeth against her lower lip, and the sudden impulse to pull her shirt off and feel his teeth against other parts of her skin made her stop and pull away. She let out a shaky breath, narrowing her eyes at him. “Alright. Now no more, and I mean it. I want to be an animagus, Sirius. I _need_ to understand the magic, for my research. Then we can…” she cast about, and seized on his phrase from the Halloween party, “revisit this situation.”

His fingers lingered at the side of her neck, twining a lock of hair. “You can count on it, witch.” Holding her gaze, he tugged the hair a little, just enough to make her mock-scowl. This prompted a smirk. Then he drew back compliantly, and rose to his feet.

“Come back inside,” he said. “It’ll actually be less distracting, you’re not as used to being outdoors. And I have an idea that might help.”

Hermione followed him into the tent, keeping a few steps behind him. He went straight over to his bag, rummaging for something. “I was saving this yesterday as a last resort for you lot, but I’m kind of glad-” He turned, and saw that Hermione was standing several arm’s lengths away. He rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to bite, Hermione, you made yourself clear.”

She took a few steps closer, eyeing him. He was holding up a flask.

“What I was going to say,” he continued, “is that I’m kind of glad I didn’t have to break this out for Harry and Ginny, because alcohol plus first-time animal instincts can be a little bit crazy. James and I got absolutely trashed to get ourselves to shift the first time, ended up in the hospital wing. Try explaining away dog bites on your shoulder, much less an antler wound.”

Hermione settled cross-legged beside him, taking the flask gingerly. “Why the alcohol, then, if it’s so uncontrollable?”

“That’s exactly why–it’s a shortcut to letting go, in exactly the way you need to to shift into an animal. Once you’ve done it once, it becomes much easier to re-capture. And you get used to keeping the animal side of it under control, more or less... Anyway, this is the last trick I’ve got up my sleeve. It should be enough to kick you out of overthinking. If,” with a hint of amusement, “anything can.”

Hermione was still looking at the flask, dubious. She shrugged, after a moment, and uncapped it. “Drink with me?” she asked Sirius. “I hate drinking alone. Much less alone in front of someone else.”

“Merlin, to have a problem like that.” Sirius was grinning, shaking his head, while Hermione took a swig and grimaced. She held out the flask and he accepted it, taking a gulp himself, and then passing it back.

She blinked down at it. “Alright. This is going to be a challenge.”

Sirius leaned back against the wall of the tent and crossed his arms, smirking at her. “I’m increasingly convinced that this will be good for you. Live a little, Hermione.”

Hermione took another swig from the flask, and scowled at him. “If I lived more and thought less, some of us might still be stuck behind Veils, suspended out of time with no one for company but-”

“Alright, alright, don’t live so much that you tell me Unspeakable secrets. You make a good point,” he nudged her knee with his, “That most of the time, I’m bloody lucky for how you think. Eye on the prize, though, Hermione. We’re getting into animagus mode.”

Hermione sighed, and scooted back against the wall too, so that she could take his arm. “Talk to me, then, so that I’m not just sitting here drinking. Something animagus-related.” She leaned her head against his arm, and he handed her the flask again. She stared down at it dolefully. “What was it like,” she offered, “when you and the Marauders used to transform?”

“Havoc.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “We took our commitment to mischief very seriously. When we weren’t shepherding Moony through his wolfish bits. Though even then, we took him way out into the Forbidden Forest a few times, exploring. Completely reckless, in retrospect, but Prongs and I always managed to keep him well away from the Castle. Our goal, of course, was figuring out how to use the forms for pranks, once we’d actually managed to become full animagi. Prongs was kind of set up for failure, drove him crazy. I was able to pull some stunts, though, particularly once it occurred to us that no one would question a dog in Hogsmead. Even snuck into the girls’ locker room off the Quidditch pitch, once, though I ended up having to use Wormtail as a distraction to-”

His voice trailed off, and Hermione could feel his sudden tension. She touched his hand, running her fingers along his. He relaxed it enough for her to slip her hand into his grasp. “Sorry,” he said, after a moment. “That’s just the first time I’ve caught myself talking about…”

Hermione looked up at him, and his face was set, picturing something she couldn’t see. “Pettigrew?” she offered, quietly.

He met her eyes, and nodded, once.

Hermione looked back, feeling suddenly grim beneath the weight of his anger. “Don’t finish that story, then,” she said, more quietly still. “It’s gone. I’m sorry I asked.”

His eyes were dark. “No words of comfort, little witch? Shouldn’t you encourage me to grow beyond the past? Wormtail’s dead. I need to-”

“No,” she said. “You don’t.”

He blinked at her.

“You’re allowed to be angry, Sirius. You’re allowed to be angry forever. Some things rate that. Maybe I would have told you to ‘grow’ or ‘heal’ past it, once. I would have said a lot of things. That was before I’d actually been to war.”

She leaned her head against his arm again, so that she wouldn’t have to look into his eyes as she said it. “I’d hated people before that–Voldemort, Wormtail, any number of Death Eaters. But that can’t compare to-” she paused, and continued fervently, “I hated Voldemort, yes. But I wish I had _murdered_ Bellatrix Lestrange. Not so much because of what she did to me. But what she did to Neville, and Dobby, and you. And to Harry, because of all of you. And I will never,” she finished, “not be angry.” She felt almost foolish at her own fierceness. But she meant every word.

Sirius’s voice was low. “What did my hellspawn of a cousin do to you?”

Hermione ought to have realized he’d pick up on that. She sighed. “We were caught by Snatchers, and taken to Malfoy Manor, during the war. Bellatrix decided to… question me. It was more or less what you’d imagine.” She drew back, and pushed her hair out of the way, angling her neck so that he could see.

His finger traced the white line of the faint scar across her throat, and his voice was a whisper. “I wish you had gotten to murder her, too.”

Hermione looked into his eyes, and there were no words for the understanding that passed between them, for just a moment. She settled for getting up on her knees to wrap her arms around him, and hugging her to him fiercely. “Have I mentioned,” she said against his hair, “how deeply glad I am that you’re back?”

“I’m not sure you’d said it in so many words,” he said, and she could feel him smiling against her neck, “but I’d been putting it together from context clues for a while.”

She pulled back so that she could look at his face properly. “How did I not miss you more? I mean, I was sad, of course, but not-”

“Devastated?” he was beginning to look cheerful again. “Don’t blame yourself, I wasn’t at my peak. Recently escaped from prison and trapped in the seat of my childhood trauma aren’t exactly me at my most charming. Not to mention, we had no particular reason to be friends yet. You were brilliant, sure, but also a faintly annoying small teenager. Not-” and he paused, seeming to realize that he was headed straight into a lavish compliment with no way out.

“Not…?” Hermione asked sweetly, sliding her hands around his neck.

“Not a more openly annoying woman. Are you feeling uninhibited enough to turn into an otter yet? Because I feel like I should warn you that I’m planning to distract you again, if not.”

Hermione blinked. Everything was taking on a rather more pleasant glow than it had a few minutes ago, now that he mentioned it. “You know,” she said, happily, “I think I am!”

Ignoring his look of disappointment, she rose to her feet, swaying a bit. Then, with great confidence, she turned and headed straight out of the tent. She could hear Sirius scrambling to his feet to follow her.

“Hermione, I know I said the tent was for distractions, but it’s also because you can hurt yourself if the transformation somehow goes-” he cut off, and his tone changed completely. “Hermione?”

She was pulling her shorts off. Her shirt followed a moment later, leaving her in her bra and knickers. Sirius had stopped in the entranceway of the tent, looking half-shocked and half-delighted. Hermione offered him a cheerful wave, and then turned and walked into the pond.

The sound of his barking laugh followed her as she submerged.

She let the feeling the laugh produced fill her heart, reveling in the freedom and cold of the water surrounding her as she swam deeper. Sirius was wonderful. So was Harry. Ginny, and Ron, and Luna. She was so lucky in her friends. She hugged her knees to her chest, floating and watching bubbles rise from her mouth to the surface through blurry, water-filled vision. She’d meant what she’d said. She wanted to have killed Bellatrix for them. She would do _anything_ for them. Why did she feel like laughing herself, as if there was an unfamiliar freedom in that thought? She felt the nudging of a magical impulse at the edge of her mind, and she followed where it pulled her, slipping into it as naturally as falling asleep.

A rush, a swirling, a sudden racing heart, and she was surfacing with small, frantic noises and dark, shining eyes.

Everything was so bright! She was paddling forward with small, furred paws, and the water was gliding past beneath her with a magnificent _swooshing_ sound. Wanting to know what that sounded like all around her, Hermione dove down again, and a world opened up around her. The sun was streaming into the pond from above, and she could see everything, rippling in the dappled light. Schools of fish flitted past, absurdly fast-moving and exciting in a way she couldn’t fathom. She swam after them, and was astonished at how the water seemed almost to propel her along. As she zoomed closer, she could _feel_ the fish moving away, little frenetic motions in the water around her. She hit the bottom, and sand ballooned out around her in a cloud. Who knew pondweed could look like trees, from down here? She swirled closer, delighted at the little forest that rose ahead of her, fronds extended towards the sunlight above. She let out what ought to have been a laugh, only it was a strange chitter, emerging from her mouth in a stream of bubbles.

Suddenly, an unnatural sound boomed out over the water, and Hermione bobbed up to the surface in alarm, pushing her muzzle up into the air. What was that _smell_? The fur on her back stiffened, and her heart began to pound.

The sound came again, and she whirled, senses alert. There was a large black dog on the shore, barking like a savage, and wagging its tail. But Hermione was off through the water already, like a dart, with one thought splintering through her mind: _predator!_

And now she was out of the water, an irate missile of small claws and fur. She hit the dog headlong, chittering angrily and going at it with her forepaws and teeth. It twisted out of the way, impossibly bigger than her, and she knew honest fear as she found herself surrounded by gargantuan paws and felt its hot breath above her.

It whined, and hopped away, seeming anxious not to step on her. She let out a growl, and launched herself after it. Jaws snapped in the air in front of her, and a warning growl of the dog’s own rattled through her frame. Distantly, she was realizing that this was Sirius, and yet the thought didn’t slow her down. What had been alarm was melting into strange excitement, her pulse racing. She would _get_ him, the smug bastard, and all his fangs and growling wouldn’t stop her, for all he could wrap his jaw around her ribcage if he chose. He wouldn’t _dare_.

She had clawed her way up onto his back, somehow, and she launched herself at the peak of a large ear, raised in alarm and tantalizingly vulnerable above the dark ruff of fur.

There was a yelp, and a rush, and suddenly giant _hands_ were grabbing her, and she was being held up in the air, her paws waving helplessly in outrage. A very human face was laughing at her, dark eyes narrowed in mirth, and she could feel the laughter throughout her whole body.

With a squeak, she transformed, knocking Sirius back beneath her. She was straddling his lap, and he was _bleeding_. “ _Sirius-_ ” His grip on her waist prevented her from scrambling off, and as he sat up, he only pulled her more snugly against him. His gray eyes were very close, and she was overwhelmingly conscious that she was wearing almost nothing. “Sirius,” she managed, a little breathlessly, “I bit your _ear_.” She should probably feel contrite, shouldn’t she? Her heart was still racing.

“Did you?” His eyebrows rose as he brought fingers away from the side of his face, touched with red. His mouth quirked, and his eyes locked on hers with a heat that belied his almost conversational tone. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you could be persuaded to bite it again?”

She looked into his face for a wordless moment. Then, feeling utterly daring, she pressed her mouth to his, slowly at first, and let him feel her teeth against his lower lip.

There was a rumble in his chest like a growl, and his hands slid from her waist to clamp around her hips. His mouth moved with hers, stubble rasping against her jaw, and, feeling as if something was newly awake inside her, she met him with equal fierceness, plundering his mouth. They were fast leaving sensual behind and moving into frantic, kisses merging in a hungry indistinction.

When she clenched her fists in his hair, he growled again, and the world tilted back. Then he was on top of her, and his mouth was at her neck in a way that made her eyes roll back, and he was pulling her hands down. She used them to unbuckle his pants.

When she slid her hand in and around his hardness, he stopped kissing her, his breath ragged. “Hermione,” he said, and it could have been a question, or a statement, or a prayer. “Are you-”

“Yes,” she whispered, moving her fingers deftly and raising her head to find his. “Yes, please-”

His mouth crushed down on hers, cutting off her words if not her sounds. She was wrapping her legs around him, and he was grinding against her. He urged her hands up so that he could slide his own hand down, testing her entrance with little gentleness. Perhaps the sound she made was what he was looking for, or the way she dug her nails into his back through his t-shirt, because he brought his other hand down as well. Two efficient tearing noises announced the demise of her knickers, and as she gasped against his mouth, he drew back enough to look into her eyes. Neither of them breathed as, in a single aching motion, he slid himself into her.

She breathed again, a desperate little noise of pleasure, as he pulled back, and forced himself in a second time. And a third. And then she was lost to the rhythm growing between them, unsure where she ended and he began. His hands were fisted in her hair on either side of her head, his weight on his elbows as they moved together, and his mouth, when not on hers, found the sensitive skin between her shoulder and neck. She could feel his teeth, not hard enough to break the skin, but not gentle. She loved it, and she let him know. She could taste salt when her mouth moved on the side of his head, and she didn’t know if it was sweat or a trace of blood.

The grass was scraping her back with their frenzied movements. When Sirius shifted their hips to a new angle, Hermione felt the bank they were on partially crumble under their weight, and they slid into a tumble of limbs, fetching up several feet further down. Hermione had felt Sirius’s elbow connect fairly solidly with her jaw on the way down, and he was pushing himself up, looking stricken. “Hermione-”

She followed him up and pushed him through the rest of the motion until he was sitting, and she climbed into his lap, settling her knees around his waist and lodging him deep inside her again with a sure motion that made him groan. She placed his hands around her own waist, and took his jaw in her hands so that she could look into his eyes. She punctuated each word with a movement of her hips, managing, breathlessly, “Don’t – you – _dare_ – _stop_ –”

He didn’t.


	15. Back at Home

Chapter Fifteen

Hermione Granger had rarely been naked and outdoors, much less naked, outdoors, and happy about it. Lying in the grass with her head on Sirius’s arm, though, it was hard to feel anything but content. More than content. Satisfied and released as she could scarcely remember feeling before. It went beyond physical completion of the act, which Ron had brought her to a few times, if fewer than he’d well-meaningly thought. It was as if her spirit had come along for the ride this time and felt the exquisite release too. She wondered if it had something to do with her animagus transformation.

Her delightful, overdue animagus transformation. Which reminded her of an unfortunate reality. She had things she had to do today beyond lying in the arms of Sirius Black.

Feeling strangely shy, she rolled over to look at the man in question. He turned his head to look back at her, and the lazy half-smile he gave her made whatever she had been about to say die on her lips. She was left giving him a bewildered sort of grin that made him laugh. He rolled over to wrap her in his arms properly and gather her against him.

“We’re quite a sight,” he said. “Though I’m pretty sure all the blood is mine, at least. Anyone else would think I’d corrupted you, little witch. You, me, and my ear know better, of course.” A statement somewhat undermined by the way he was caressing the curve of her bottom as he spoke.

“Of course,” she murmured. She hooked a finger into the vee of his t-shirt, just above where her breasts were pressed against it. “I used my corrupting skills to get myself out of all those restrictive clothes, and to get you into this sultry getup. I’m a mastermind, truly.”

“Not saying your corrupting skills couldn’t use some honing.” He rolled them so that she was pressed beneath him, and brushed his lips over hers, which were still rosy and swollen. “Consider me,” he said against her mouth, “your helpless victim.”

Hermione threaded her hands up through his hair, and trailed her mouth along his stubbled jaw, enjoying the roughness. The weight of him on top of her, and the smell of him so near. Then she sighed. “As much as I’d like to get to work on your other ear,”–an amused snort–“I should probably go and clean up. I promised Luna I’d meet her for lunch to check in about a project for work. We’ve got to talk before we get to work tomorrow. Unfortunately.” She wondered if he would urge her to put the meeting off until the evening, but when he rolled off and settled on his elbow beside her, his expression was bland.

“Alright,” he said, simply. And Hermione suddenly felt very conscious, somehow, that she was wearing nothing, while he lay fully clothed, if rather rumpled.

She sat up and drew her knees to her chest, feeling her face flush pink. And not in a good way. And Sirius was sitting up now, too, all of his six feet and shaggy dark hair and pain lines that only showed at a certain angle, and she was suddenly feeling all of the years of experience and sadness and life that stretched between them. Merlin, what was she doing? Who was she to think that they could reach each other, through all of… that?

And yet. He was looking at her, his head angled to the side, for once not saying anything. His face was handsome, and remote, and undeniably just beyond the border of being at all young. There was a thread of obscure shame curling in her heart, perhaps for even having these thoughts, and she didn’t know if she was feeling guilty or more besotted than ever. Only, she wasn’t sure she could keep meeting Sirius’s gray eyes, right now.

After a moment that had seemed far too long, he turned and waved his wand, and her clothes came sailing into his grasp. He offered them to her.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Not at all,” he said. “I’ll let you change.” He stood up, putting his wand in his pocket. Then he hesitated, and leaned down to press a brief kiss to her forehead, his hand resting in an almost-caress against her face, before he turned and headed off for the tent.

Hermione stepped down to the pond to Scourgify herself clean, and was impressed at the amount of mud and blood that came off. She had probably collected some of it in animagus form. She couldn’t imagine that she and Sirius had managed to roll themselves through that much dirt. A small smile was hovering around her mouth as she traced some of the marks, siphoning them off with her wand. The muddy handprints in particular were amusingly clustered. And had all that blood really come from Sirius’s ear?

Pulling on her clothes was like pulling back on a former Hermione. More awake, more sad. Constricted. But her lips still tingled, when she touched her fingers to her mouth, with the aftermath of their kisses.

When she went back into the tent, cleaned and dressed, it was with a mission. She ignored Sirius, who was brooding in a summoned hammock by the doorway, in favor of rummaging in her purse. Prize found, she took it over to him. He was lying with his arms crossed, perhaps under the impression that he looked relaxed. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Can I see your ear?”

“That depends on what your intentions are.” He sat up, though, and tilted his head to give her access.

She applied a few drops of dittany from the bottle in her hand, steadying his chin for the delicate work. He was stiff under her hands as she spread the liquid around, and she was starting to wonder if her plan had been a bad idea. Feeling a little foolish, she leaned forward anyway, and pressed a soft kiss to the now-healed skin.

She felt tension pass through Sirius, but the look he offered her was more open. “Feels better. What did you do?”

“My lips,” she informed him, with a certain nobility, “have magical powers.”

That received an indescribable smirk in response. And then it seemed quite natural that she should lean in, and that his hand should come up to her cheek, and that she should kiss him. This kiss was unstrained, a simple melting together, and she felt more of the tension leave him. Leave them both, perhaps. Sirius tasted like sin, familiar and strange all at once.

When she pulled away, his eyes were dark. “Alright, little witch,” he said. “Don’t miss your appointment on my account.”

“The world could be ending, Sirius,” she said, crossing the tent, “and I would still be on time. In fact, I think I’ve proved that a few times.” She hoisted her bag up onto her shoulder, and hesitated. “See you tonight, then.”

He had resumed his hammock-swinging, a pendulous, excruciating _creeeaaak_ from side to side. She wondered if the hammock had come with the tent. She was fairly sure that the corner of Sirius’s mouth tilted up, though. “See you, Hermione.”

…

Luna was visible from two blocks away. She was camped out at a café table waiting for Hermione, and she was knitting. While knitting might be imagined to be a normal thing to do at a café table, this was Luna. Naturally, then, her yarn was luminously, incandescently purple, and floated in the air around her in a gentle cloud. Hermione almost–almost–didn’t want to ask.

“Hello, Luna,” she said, when she’d claimed her seat and accepted a menu from the waiter. “Why is your yarn floating?”

“The flitterbloom fibers are excited,” said Luna, in a tone that implied that this was an understandable reaction on their part. “The more important question is why it’s glowing.” Hermione waited, but that was apparently all that Luna had intended to say. She blinked at Hermione serenely. “Is Ron visiting?”

Hermione frowned. “No, he isn’t. Why do you ask?”

Luna tilted her head. “It’s only that you look very happy.”

Luna wasn’t typically one to assume that happiness should depend on a man, of all things. She was more likely to ask what you’d been eating. Hermione wondered what was giving her away.

With a certain wide-eyed innocence, Luna then went fishing in her purse, and offered Hermione a small tube. “Would you like to try my new elderflower chapstick? It’s very nice.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes slightly. Luna’s open expression didn’t waver. Hermione reached for the chapstick, and uncapped it. It really did smell lovely. When she put it on her lips, though, it _stung_. Now that she paid attention, in fact, much of her lower face was feeling a bit raw. Putting two and two together… she was glad it was Luna sitting across from her, and not Ginny.

“How red is my face?” asked Hermione.

“Do you mean from your blushing,” asked Luna helpfully, “or from before your blushing?”

“Before.”

“Not too bad in most places, but you do look as if you’ve been kissing someone rather a lot. Have you been around anything that might have stinging spores?”

Hermione would have to think on this. She did _not_ want Sirius to start shaving his stubble away; she _liked_ his stubble. But she also couldn’t very well go around looking so obvious. Being secretive about this could prove harder than she’d thought. She just… didn’t want whatever this was between her and Sirius to be crushed by scrutiny, just yet. She wanted it to be specially theirs. Until it was ready for people’s unsympathy, maybe.

Luna was beginning to look somewhat concerned about the spores. “No, I don’t think it’s anything to worry about,” said Hermione. Luna was giving her a searching Luna look, and so Hermione added, “Though there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Ron and I broke up, a couple of days ago. Just before Halloween. I was keeping it to myself so that I could tell people one at a time.”

Luna’s face had initially filled with sympathy, but as she took in how dispassionately Hermione said it, she tilted her head thoughtfully. “I’m glad that you don’t seem sad about it. Ron is lovely, but the two of you don’t fill the right gaps in each other. I hope you were kissing somebody else earlier. Shall we order?” She was holding her menu solemnly, like a hymnal.

Hermione blinked at her, and then smiled helplessly. “Sure, let’s order. And,” she felt it overflowing a little now, a bubble of giddiness, “ _strictly_ between you and me, I was very much kissing someone else earlier. But you can’t tell Ginny under any circumstances. Or anyone else, yet. I just don’t want Ron to think I was cheating on him before we broke up, which I wasn’t. I just… Well. It could _not_ wait any longer.” It felt good to unload, just this little bit, and Luna was a vault, if anyone was. And Luna wouldn’t _poke_ , like Ginny might.

Luna was nodding, absently twisting a dusty blond curl around her finger. Then she offered a contribution: “Is it Sirius Black?”

Hermione gaped at her. While Luna wouldn’t poke, apparently, Hermione hadn’t been counting on her unnerving ability to simply reach in and grasp.

Luna smiled down at her menu. “I thought so. I’m thinking of getting the onion soup, do you know what you want?”

“How did you know? Have I been that obvious?”

“Oh, no. I just know you. And I think it makes sense. I don’t think most people will have any inkling, but you should watch out around Ginny. And Harry. He doesn’t get credit for noticing things.” She tilted her head, thinking, and then nodded. “I don’t know if Sirius is obvious, of course. He might be worse than you are. I haven’t seen him enough to say, properly. But he’s very… definite, I’d think, about feeling things.” She paused, and then looked at Hermione with a certain plaintiveness. “Does he make you happy?”

Hermione thought, smiled, and turned pink around the edges. “Yes. …How are you getting on with Dorian recently, by the by?”

It was Luna’s turn to blush. Her menu came up. “I am very hungry, as I think about it. Maybe I will get the fish and chips instead.”

As their meal wound down, however, conversation turned from pleasure to business, and Luna was corralled, however reluctantly, back onto the subject of Dorian.

“He’s surprised by how fast the Veil is going this time. Apparently it took almost a full year the last time, though I get the sense Priscilla didn’t help.” Hermione quashed a comment to the effect that this didn’t surprise her at all. Luna was dragging her fork around the edge of her plate, her eyebrows furrowed as she watched its progress. “Did you know,” she added, in a tone that might have been mistaken for offhand, “that Priscilla was married, before the Veil?”

Hermione was taken aback. That was certainly news. “Married? And her husband was left behind? That’s… so very sad.”

Luna nodded. “I said something similar, but apparently he died before the Veil, quite a while.”

Hermione frowned. “You’ve been getting somewhere. Good job.” Luna’s smile was a little bit weak. “Do you suppose,” said Hermione, “that they saw him, when they were inside the Veil?”

Luna was quiet. “I think so. Probably. Dorian doesn’t like to talk about it. I… I’m not sure that he would say that he really saw anything, though, while he was there. Not _really_ , I mean. It’s hard to get him to explain what he means, but I think he thinks it wasn’t–wasn’t all for real, somehow. Like maybe he dreamed parts of it, even though he says ‘dreaming’ is the wrong word when I try to ask. He says he didn’t imagine it. Priscilla and he were both there together. But it also wasn’t… ‘real.’ That part seems important to him. I think it’s maybe because some of the things that they saw there were terrible, and maybe impossible. So it helps if they weren’t real.”

Hermione took that in. “How would he know if it had been real?”

Luna met her eyes, and shrugged a bit, as if to say, how did they know that anything was real?

“Have you gotten him to say what he thinks of it as? The place beyond the Veil?” This was something they’d been trying to pin the Delacs down on from the very beginning. They were clear that their original intention had been to build a window into the realm of death. They were also very clear that they themselves had never been dead, while beyond the Veil. Questions beyond this ran up against a strange reluctance, and Hermione and Luna had been unable to tell for weeks if it was because the Delacs didn’t know exactly what had happened, or because they wouldn’t say.

Luna’s mouth had thinned to a line, and her pale eyes were troubled. “He… he made me promise not to tell, Hermione. But I think I have to tell you anyway, because,” her voice dropped, “I’m not sure what it means, and I’m starting to be–afraid for him. And,” a wan smile, “because it’s my job to tell, of course. He said that it’s not a doorway to death. That it’s not this time, and that it wasn’t the last time. Which is different from what he’s said at work. He seemed… nervous, I think, to be saying so. Or something like that.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “He told you this–in secret?”

Luna nodded, shifting in her seat. “We’ve gotten… very close.” Hermione wished Luna’s shy smile was less shadowed.

“If it’s not a doorway to death–or a window, or whatever–then what is it?”

Luna met her look, eyes pale and distant, and shook her head. “I don’t know. I think he’s trying to protect me. He didn’t want me to be afraid of it, maybe. But he won’t say that it’s anything else. And he still approaches building it, as far as I can see, like that’s exactly what it’s for.”

This was strange. Strange, and Hermione didn’t know what to do with it. “What is he building it for, then, if he knows that it’s not a doorway into death? Why is he acting like it is? He seemed so earnest when he talked to us about building it for magical knowledge. Do we–do we believe that? What is he looking for? You know him much better than I do.”

Luna’s expression was a little bit empty. “Do I?”

An afternoon in Diagon Alley, and a dinner with Luna, Dean, and Neville later–“Blimey, Hermione, what’s Ron going to do without you?” had been Neville’s wide-eyed reaction–Hermione arrived home at Grimmauld Place. She couldn’t quite believe that it had been only a day since she sent Harry and Ginny away, frustrated over her failure to transform. Perhaps she should apologize? In any case, work questions having been dealt with until tomorrow, she was excited to show them that she had managed to figure it out after all.

Soft noises led her to their usual household haunt in the library, and she stopped short with the doorway just barely open, feeling her face heat. This was unusual. They had an unspoken _rule_ about this. Ginny was straddled across Harry’s lap, the both of them in a state of impending undress, and they appeared to be absolutely lost in each other. They hadn’t noticed Hermione opening the door, at any rate.

This was really quite unlike them. Generally speaking, the reigning code of conduct at Grimmauld Place was that friends did not get down to romantic business in the common spaces that other friends might be wanting to use. And that, if they did, the consequences they faced were up to the creativity of whoever discovered them, as Hermione and Ron had once discovered very much to their chagrin. Ron had never again been willing to so much as kiss her in any of the hallways without checking first for invisibility cloaks.

Hermione felt somewhat justified, therefore, as she backed away from the doorway, smiling to herself already. Crouching down to the carpet, then, she thought hard about how much she loved Harry and Ginny, the small core of fierceness that that lit inside of her. And about how _fun_ this might be. Her four small paws hit the ground, and she hunkered down, sniffing around with intention.

Quietly, now. She crept over to the newly gigantic doorway, and made her way underneath the couch. So many smells and noises in Grimmauld Place that she wasn’t used to. This carpet, for instance, was so _intricate._ She could happily spend a long time just here, in the cave-space between couch and floor. Tree-trunk legs swayed not far in front of her, though, and a small moan from far above made her roll her eyes in faint discomfort, even filtered through her otter perceptions. Mind on the mission. She continued to the base of the coffee table, and surveyed her prospects.

Harry was wearing pants, which was more than could be said for Ginny. Considering this, then, as the kinder option, Hermione aimed herself at Harry’s mid-calf or so, where there seemed to be some nice loose cloth for her claws to get a grip in. And then she sprang.

To Ginny’s credit, Harry began screaming like a little girl a distinct second before she did. Both of them had been reduced to a shrieking, half-hysterical puddle by the time Hermione noodled her way out from between them, narrowly dodging somebody’s foot, and leapt clear onto the carpet, where she rolled to a halt in smug and very human form.

Ginny’s shrieks had continued at a certain point straight on into laughter, but Harry had taken his glasses off to semi-dramatically wipe tears from his eyes once he processed what had occurred. When he put his glasses back on, the gaze he leveled at Hermione was somewhere between awe and outrage. “You know,” he managed, “this is _very low_ on the list of obvious ways to get our attention. Somewhere below fireworks, and just barely above giant spiders.”

Ginny had pulled herself together and was buttoning her shirt, her face still red. She shook her head, smiling. “Giant spiders are very played out, Harry, don’t be silly. I, for one, would like to salute you, Hermione. The woman usually scorns the game, but when she plays-”

“It’s all well and good when it wasn’t _your_ leg making first contact with a sudden rodent,” was Harry’s admittedly reasonable retort.

Once the initial shock had worn off, Harry and Ginny remembered to congratulate Hermione on finally figuring out how to make the transformation at all. She was a little bit vague when they asked her how she had done it–she had a paranoid feeling that Ginny was asking a lot of questions, so she was sure to emphasize how important floating in the pond had been. And to happen to leave out almost everything that Sirius had done to help. Talking with the two of them about their own transformations, it seemed that the same dynamic held true–the key was finding that core of _feeling_ that blossomed into the animal identity, not of thought, and being able to let go and let it take hold. Hermione set up a time to talk to Harry about what his form meant to him more specifically; she wanted to do it with her Quickquotes Quill around. She couldn’t directly explain to him that she hoped he might be channeling part of his father’s magical identity, and that that might be vitally important to her research, of course. It was Unspeakable business. But he was Harry, who knew her, and he could tell that it was important.

The creak of a door downstairs announced Sirius’s return, and Ginny turned to look at Hermione with speculation. “’Mione,” she said, “how high pitched do you think _Sirius’s_ shriek would be, if you pulled the same prank right now of running up his leg?”

Hermione couldn’t help feeling like this was some kind of trap. “I don’t know,” she said, with careful unenthusiasm. “I feel like I might get stepped on.”

Harry, unfortunately, was beginning to look dreamily pleased. “Oh, come on, ‘Mione. Just think about how happy it would make Kreacher to hear about it. How much simple happiness does the poor elf get, after all?”

This was a mildly persuasive point. Hermione frowned, and then sighed. “Fine.” Getting up onto her knees, she concentrated again, and then scooted deep underneath the far couch in otter form with just a few seconds to spare as footsteps reached the landing.

Sirius strode into the library, nodding cheerfully at Harry and Ginny. “Evening, lovebirds. Dromeda sends her regards. Teddy would as well, but he hasn’t quite mastered-” He paused, and stopped walking. Hermione could see his shoes shift a little bit, warily. And it was the strangest thing–she felt she could hear him breathing.

“Is–this is going to sound real weird if I’m wrong,” he said, “but was Hermione just-” He stopped, apparently taking in something about Harry and Ginny’s expressions. “Really?” he said, flatly. Then he was crouching down, and a dark shaggy head swung into Hermione’s view. He narrowed his eyes at her, apparently amused in spite of himself. “You’re incredibly sinister in the dark corner back there,” he informed her. “I was going to tell you to come out now, but I think I’d better let you do whatever you want.”

With that, he stood back up and sprawled onto the couch above Hermione, apparently considering the situation adequately addressed. Hermione, facing the backs of his legs, decided that it would be uncivilized to try and sniff his ankles, as fascinating as the smell of his feet might be in otter form. Particularly in front of Harry and Ginny. Instead, she emerged from her cave with great dignity, and sauntered over to the couch where the couple sat, climbing up onto the cushion beside Harry and eyeing Sirius with rebuke.

“How on earth,” said Ginny, “did you know that she was under there?”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, and half-shrugged. “Dog instincts, I think. I’m not sure half the time. I think some of the sense of smell sticks around, maybe, once you’ve lived in the form as much as I have.” He had been looking at Hermione with unusual intensity as he spoke and, perhaps realizing this, he transferred his attention to his nails with an air of almost excessive casualness. It was lucky that nonchalance was Sirius’s default mode, Hermione reflected. Performatively casual read as natural for him.

“Interesting,” Ginny was saying. “Do you smell _all_ of us with horrific precision, then?”

Sirius’s eyes crinkled. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Setting that terrifying thought aside–” He was looking at Hermione, who had curled up beside his elbow, her tail tucked daintily under her paws. “Hermione, I have to say, I’m a big fan of your form. You’re like a cat, but sort of rounder and cuter, now that you’re not climbing up my leg. So give it a rest with the ‘I’m a rodent’ whining, anyway. Am I allowed to touch your fur?”

“Not sure,” murmured Sirius, “that that’s a great idea,” as Harry’s hand hovered over Hermione’s soft head. “Let’s just say,” he added, at Harry’s questioning look, “that I’m not bleeding _currently_.”

With an almost audible huff, Hermione stretched up to Harry’s hand so that he could pet her on the top of the head. Sirius shrugged, doing a very credible job of looking unconcerned. That was better. Hermione was fairly sure. Was this how friends acted?

Ginny reached over to pet Hermione on the top of the head as well, and Hermione let out an approving chirrup. That felt _lovely._ Ginny grinned. “Why don’t we all transform?” she said, looking around at Harry and Sirius. “Now that we all can–we can play a game, like yesterday. It’ll be fun!”

Hermione tensed. Humans to her otter form were one thing. But judging from how overwhelming the feeling of her head being stroked felt alone, she wasn’t sure that she could trust her otter senses around a transformed Sirius just yet. Just thinking of it brought relentless sensory memories of the morning rushing back–his scent, her blood racing–and she hopped hurriedly down off the couch and back into her human form. Harry was eagerly levitating furniture out of the way to clear space for himself and Ginny to transform, but, after meeting Hermione’s eyes for a brief instant, Sirius put a restraining hand on his arm. “I’m not sure,” he said, “that two predators at the same time is a good idea, at least for a few days, while Hermione’s getting used to the form. It’s a little unpleasantly overwhelming at first.”

Hermione wasn’t sure that the “unpleasantly” had been called for. “It’s okay,” she added, a little bit hastily, “I need to go shower and turn in anyway, I’ve got an early work day tomorrow. But–at some point, that sounds fun. You guys should go ahead without me, though. I’ll just head up.” She wasn’t sure she should be around Sirius for much longer, now that things like his scent were occurring to her so viscerally.

Ginny and Harry wore looks of twin mild concern and confusion, but they bid her goodnight warmly. Sirius’s “Have a good night, Hermione” had all the politeness and distance of complete disinterest. When she snuck a look back from the doorway, though, their eyes locked, and his mouth twitched in a smile.

Hermione wondered how seriously Sirius had taken her statement about turning in early. She had legitimately gone up and taken a shower, half with the genuine thought of going to bed, but as she set about wand-drying her hair now, she found that she was still thrummingly awake. And so she stepped out into the hallway in her nightgown, thinking that she’d just linger for a bit while she brushed her hair. And that maybe he’d somehow know what she was thinking. She was becoming pathetically romantic with alarming speed, she knew. As if her aching to be near him should produce his presence.

This time, though, it seemed that he was pleasantly ready to be summoned. It wasn’t long at all before rapid clicks sounded on the stairs below her, and a dark form trotted onto the landing on four paws, looking up at her with liquid eyes. Then it rose, and Sirius was looking down at her, with very much the same expression of blank-eyed hunger. “Are you-” his voice rasped, and he broke off, as if not quite sure what he was aiming to say. He shook his head, as though clearing it, and, his hands settling on her shoulders, Hermione found that he was walking her back towards the wall. When he was pressing her against it, with his lips brushing over her temple and cheek, he said, in a confidingly low tone, “It’s a good thing we avoided the animagus forms at the same time. I could smell you from two flights down.” His hands had found the curve of her waist, through the nightgown. And she fancied she could feel the racing of his heartbeat.

“What,” she said, “do I smell like?”

He pulled back enough to narrow gray eyes at her. Eyes that flitted to her mouth, and then lower, before rising to meet hers again. His voice held a faint hoarseness. “Good. You smell really–good.”

She couldn’t tear her eyes from his. “I thought you were just playing it cool downstairs, about the animagus forms. So that _I_ wouldn’t get caught losing control around _you_.” She wondered if that sounded like a challenge. She was smiling like an idiot.

“Mm.” His fingers were digging into the skin at her waist. “I was. But I don’t think I realized quite how-” a slow blink, as he chose the right word, “-overwhelming, you’d be to me. In animagus form. I mean, I could…” he seemed to be losing track of what he was saying again, looking down at Hermione, their noses barely an inch apart. Thinking about whatever it was that he ‘could.’

“Is that,” she whispered, “what’s overwhelming about me?”

His mouth curved in a half-smile and, just when she thought he was going to close the whisper of space and kiss her, he leaned back. “Do you want,” he said, “to see my room?”

Tease.

She did want to see his room.

Apparently taking her nuzzling mumble against his neck as an affirmative, Sirius stepped back from the wall enough to release her, though his mouth lingered against her hair for a few moments before he moved. “Alright,” he said, and held a hand out towards his door with mock chivalry. It swung open, which, Hermione was almost annoyed to admit, was an elegant little bit of wandless magic.

She led the way inside, stifling a little spike of nerves, and shot a look back at him. He had leaned against the banister, apparently just taking in the sight of her walking into his room. His look made her blush, which made him smirk. As he followed her in, she turned to look at the room properly.

It was surprisingly… lovely. Homey, even. The floor was covered with the sort of rustic braid rug Hermione associated with cabins. The far corner was dominated by a four poster bed, and the nearer wall was lined in bookcases, some of the shelves of which glittered with bottles and small moving parts rather than books. The color scheme was by and large red, but the Gryffindor commitment was not overdone. One wall was given over to old photographs and favored posters of Muggle bands. A dark wooden chest of drawers lived beneath a modest framed mirror, and a pile of clothes sprawled on the floor beside it in the corner. There was a remarkable absence of notable furniture beyond this, and, instead, a great many throw pillows in varied warm hues scattered about the bed and the carpet. While Sirius was a skilled enough wizard to summon chairs as needed, Hermione suspected this had more to do with how much time he still spent as Padfoot while in his room. Dogs didn’t do well with chairs.

Hermione was almost moved by the contents of the room, and their simplicity. It felt like a small glimpse into some very true things about Sirius.

He had closed the door, and was leaning against the wall, watching her with a certain satisfaction. “Thoughts?”

Hermione smiled. “I like your aesthetic.” She drifted in towards him, allowing it when his hands slid around her back, and pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth, just beside his lips. Then she slid away. They were playing a game now, a dance of suspense. Judging from the heat in his expression, he was very much as aware of it as she was. She walked closer to the bed, and perched up on its edge. “In particular,” she observed, “I think that your shirts look best when they are on the floor over there. It improves the aesthetics of the room. Categorically.”

He took the hint, but he took his time about it. And held her eyes until the very last button. Dropping the shirt onto the pile with the others, he tilted his head, apparently taking in the way that she was taking _him_ in. There was a smile hovering about his mouth, and something of his hungry look had returned. She had seen Sirius without a shirt before, of course, when they’d been swimming with Harry and Ginny. But she hadn’t really let herself study him. He was no longer the gaunt convict of her teenage memories. Nor did he have the Grecian athlete physique of a twenty year old Ron or Harry. There was instead a lean muscle and a solidity to him; the shadow of hair on his chest provoked much the same emotion in her that the stubble on his face did. The effect was altogether masculine. And she was feeling feral things for him that she couldn’t put into words.

His eyes were dark. “You know,” he said, “The aesthetics of my bed are definitely improved by having you on it. But I’m not sure about that nightgown.”

Hermione looked down at it, and then up at him, coyly. “I don’t know,” she demurred. “It’s terribly tricky, this nightgown. You might have to come help me take it off.”

He was over to the bed and up beside her in a couple of strides, and she let out a breathless huff of laughter when he grabbed her by the waist to pull them both down onto the middle of the bed. He settled on his elbow, looking down at her beside him. A row of buttons ran from the collar of the nightgown all the way down to its hem, just around her knees. He set to work at the top, just over her collarbone, with one hand, undoing each button with a savoring sort of slowness. “I will say,” he said, “that I have much appreciated that, as vaguely modest as this thing looks, the fabric is thin enough that I can _almost_ imagine your breasts through it.” His tone was casual; his hand was not.

“When,” said Hermione, pulling a lock of hair into his face that he blew out of the way in mock annoyance, “have you had the chance to notice, before now?”

His hand had caught hers, preventing further mischief. “You came downstairs in the middle of the night the first day I got back from St. Mungo’s.” He sounded somewhere between sheepish and nostalgic. “I _try_ to have pure thoughts, I really do,”–she snorted–“but I was, among other things, processing the shock of having one day been used to a fourteen year old kid I barely knew, and then coming back two days later to find that she’d grown up into a full-on spitfire adult witch, saved me from a Veil of Death, and become concerningly beautiful. And then processing the shock of finding her in my kitchen at midnight, wearing… this.” Given how much of the outline of his hand she could see when he shifted it up her outer thigh, she had to admit that he had a point about the thinness of the cloth.

“I can’t really blame you,” she said, half-smiling up at him. “I think that was the first night I realized that I had a crush on you.”

His eyes crinkled, but he raised an eyebrow. “Hermione Granger,” he said, in a tone of mock surprise, “a crush on _me_?” His hand had reached her hip beneath the nightgown, and was caressing in a sure, soft circle.

She slipped her arms around his neck, pulling him down and closer. “Isn’t it scandalous?” she whispered, and, unwilling to hold off any longer, kissed him.

The waiting, she found, had been worth it. This kiss was a teasing tasting, an exploration that made her every nerve tingle. Sirius shifted his weight, and she rolled over into his arms. There was something emboldening about looking down at him; she found herself following through on impulses to pull his lower lip into her mouth, or to kiss the vulnerable skin just below his ear.

Kissing with the same sensuous rhythm, he pulled her more fully onto him, so that her knees sank to either side of his hips. He had pulled the nightgown up to her waist somewhere along the way, and his hands were skimming over her exposed skin. Then, with more intent, he urged her legs further apart, and his fingers found her entrance. Her first murmured noise was of pleasure, but he noticed when she flinched at a deeper intrusion. He paused.

“Too fast, kitten?”

“Not exactly.” She mumbled against his jaw, turning pink. “I just hadn’t realized I was sore, from earlier.”

He was pushing himself up on his elbows beneath her, his eyebrows coming together. “We absolutely don’t have to do anything you don’t-”

“I _do_ want us to,” Hermione interrupted, and because he was essentially sitting up now, she wrapped her arms and legs around him for emphasis. “I’m just realizing,” she said, confidingly, “that we’ll need to take it a little–um, slower, is all.”

“I can do that,” was Sirius’s promise against her ear.

His mouth found hers again, for a few moments, and then he pushed her down onto her back with an air of intention. His head dipped down, and his hands skimmed up her sides, and she assumed that he was moving to take the nightgown, finally, off. He pushed her knees further apart, and she was a bit startled, then, to feel his mouth warm against the inside of her thigh. And moving with purpose. Oh dear.

He noticed that she’d tensed, and stopped to look up. He seemed always to notice, when she wasn’t sure.

“I–sorry, I don’t want you to stop,” she said, before he could inquire. “I just realized, um, what you were up to. It’s just that…” her face had flushed, she knew, and the fact that he was gently kissing her knee while he listened and watched her face wasn’t helping her composure. “Ron never really, um, did that,” she managed, doing her best to shove down her embarrassment, “so I was just… taken by surprise.”

Sirius’s eyebrows had shot up in a look of mild outrage. “He _never-_ ”

“In his defense,” Hermione said, looking away, “I was pretty shy about a lot of things, so…”

Sirius had sat up, and he moved closer so that he could take her chin in his hand and bring her gaze back. His face was very close, and he was reading her expression carefully, running the pad of his thumb over her mouth. “Do you want _me_ to?” There was a hint of velvet to the question.

Hermione blinked, bashfully, and smiled. “I mean, if _you_ want to.”

Sirius let out his breath in an amused huff. “I’ll remind you, at some point, that you said that. And we’ll both laugh about it. Alright, little witch.” He released her chin, half-smiling, though something about his face had taken on a faintly predatory cast that she was coming to recognize. And to anticipate with relish. “Let’s do this properly. Sit up.”

Hermione did, and Sirius took the hem of the nightgown and pulled it off in one go as she obediently raised her arms. He tossed it to the floor. She could feel his eyes raking over every inch of her, then, marooned in the expanse of his bed.

He nodded at the head of the bed. “Lean up there, against the pillows.” She did. “Good,” he said, and followed her up to kiss her thoroughly. There was nothing between them now except his pants–she wondered if he was keeping himself in check–and he seemed inclined to treat her newly exposed skin with the same gentleness that his kisses had been showing all evening. He was savoring her.

When he reached her waist or so, he looked up to meet her eyes. She had been moving her fingers through his hair, and she pulled them back now. Biting her lip, she opened her legs further in tacit permission. Grinning, he placed a final kiss on her stomach.

“I’m not going to bite,” was the amused promise, and then, dark eyes on hers, he moved his mouth to her inner thigh. And began working his way down.

This was, so far, nice, but within Hermione’s expectations. His warm kisses felt good anywhere, to be fair. And she had an especial fondness for the way that he-

_Merlin mother of hippogriffs, what in the name of Salazar bloody-_

Hermione was pulling the sheets beside her into spasmodically grasping fists, making noises she hadn’t known she could make. At a certain point, Sirius pulled away. Hermione looked down, breathless, and realized that he was casting a silencing charm around the room. And grinning a very smug grin when he caught her eye. With cheeky consideration, he leaned in: “Would you like me to keep going?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she almost hissed, half aglow, half irritated. “Shut up. Sirius Black, you bloody- _oh_ , fuck. Sirius, fuck. You bloody _marvelous_ -” She didn’t quite articulate what sort of marvelous thing he was, as she wasn’t managing to articulate much at all for a while after that. The most she managed was, when Sirius angled his mouth differently so as to slide fingers into the equation, to gasp, “Oh,” and then, “ _oh, no,_ ” several times repeatedly when the fingers hit the right spots inside of her.

They were suddenly gone, then, and Sirius was up beside her, sweaty and tasting of–well, of her, logically. When she released his mouth, he asked, a bit hoarsely, “Was that a good ‘no,’ or a bad ‘no’?”

“What?” Hermione realized what he meant. She tangled her fingers in his hair. “A _very_ good no,” she informed him, in the closest tone she’d ever heard herself use to a purr.

He kissed her harder, seeming satisfied. When he drew back, his eyes were dark with desire. “What will you say if you want me to stop, then?”

Hermione was too distracted to be creative about this. “How about the literal word ‘stop’?”

“Works for me.” Another burning kiss, and then he went to move downward again, but Hermione reached for him.

“Sirius-”

“Yes?” Pulling him back upward had brought him on top of her, and she could feel his breath on her skin, was a small tilt of the head from pressing her mouth back to his.

“That was amazing,” her voice was a whisper, “but I want you inside me.” She was fumbling for the buttons on his pants.

His hands replaced hers, more efficiently. “Are you still sore?” His voice was a rumble, his face obscured by a fall of dark hair as he sat up to free himself from the pants.

“I have no idea,” said Hermione softly. She was watching the play of his shoulder muscles in the low light, the way his hands moved. “You’ve melted that part of my brain.”

His smile verged on a smirk, but then he was back in her arms, skin against her skin, and she was kissing the smile away, so it didn’t matter. She could feel that he was as ready as she was, but when she tried to wrap herself around him–Merlin, she needed him _closer_ –he pulled her up towards the headboard instead. “Like this.” He was leaning back against the headboard, urging her up to straddle his lap. “So that I won’t hurt you.” His voice was a bit strained.

They eased him into her together, gradually. She clung against his chest for a moment, hit by the sensation.

His arms were around her, gripping her back. He moved, very gently, and she moved with him, making a soft noise she was hardly aware of. His mouth was warm against her neck, his voice a whisper. “How does this feel?”

Hermione moved, slowly, aching, and held him hard. “Good,” she managed, and her breath hitched in a gasp as he pushed again.

His grip had shifted to her hips, and their rhythm was growing deeper and more deliberate. His lips sought her mouth, her cheek, her ear. Voice soft and hoarse, he made her say more. “Tell me how you feel, Hermione, with me inside you.” The words were barely audible; he was lost to the effort of moving her with him, not too harshly, and she could taste the sweat on his skin.

Such words, she hardly knew what to do with such words. Her fingers were tangled in his hair. “Consumed,” she tried, against his ear, and, when he moved again, “–amazing.” She lost her breath to a small noise, half-whimper. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she said next, when he pressed her closer and the catch in his breath made her feel brave.

“Tell me.” The words were soft but urgent.

She moved her lips against his jaw, and whispered, “I like it that it still hurts, just a little bit.”

Sirius stilled, his breath ragged. “Do you like it just a little,” he murmured against her hair, “or do you like it that it hurts just a little?” Hermione didn’t know if he was holding her motionless or himself motionless, their pulses racing. She did know that he wanted her to say the words for him.

“I like it a lot,” she breathed, “that it hurts just a little.” He hadn’t moved, and she could feel his breath hot on her neck and shoulder.

His hand found its way up to her hair, caressing. “What a wicked little witch you are,” he whispered. Then he groaned; she had moved her hips, just so, and she let out a breathy and deliberate moan. His mouth captured hers, cutting off the sound, and his hands tightened in her hair and on her waist, just a touch brutally. Before long, he had found their rhythm again, relentlessly.

Then they were both well past the point of words for a time, until Hermione came apart in his arms, over and over, losing all knowledge for an ecstatic few moments. She was still shuddering with aftershocks, pressing herself against him with abandon, as she felt him break apart inside her, holding her with desperate force.

Then, like marionettes whose strings had been cut, they collapsed gradually to the bed, still entangled in each other. Hermione was marveling. She hadn’t known she could respond like _that_. She still hadn’t caught her breath.

With some effort, she managed after a little while to peel herself off of Sirius. He moved his arm to let her go with a certain reluctance, and a murmured, “Soft witch.” Hermione leaned over, and he gave her a bleary smile. His eyelids were comically drooping. Amused, Hermione kissed him–she liked how familiar this sensation was getting–and then sat up.

“You don’t have to leave, ’f you don’t want to. Just s’ you know,” he said. His tone was almost excessively casual. Hermione was beginning to wonder if that was a go-to blind of his, and if he maybe buried wistfulness under it sometimes.

“I know,” she said, and squeezed his arm.

She found her nightgown crumpled on the floor. It felt amusingly pathetic as a covering, now, but she slipped it on anyway.

In the bathroom, she found that her tendency to linger over her own reflection was really getting out of hand. It was absurd, though, that these traces should have been left by Sirius Black. Who was this disheveled, rosy-faced, happy woman looking back at her, and what had she done with the strictures of Hermione Granger?

A sudden thought hit her. She hadn’t planned for this, because it hadn’t occurred to her that she’d ever be in this situation, but–should she get tested? She wasn’t worried about pregnancy, as she’d been on magical birth control for years, but _muggle_ infections and such were something she hadn’t considered. She couldn’t work up much genuine concern, as they were all very solvable by magic, and she rather trusted Sirius, but she was mostly astounded that she hadn’t even had the thought until now. What was this–this unconcern? She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. This lack of energy to worry.

Walking back to Sirius’s room, she found that he had made it as far as getting under the covers, and that seemed to be about it. Regarding the sleeping sprawl of a man, Hermione felt a strange tenderness. And a certain amount of flattery. Amazing what a difference it made in her reaction, she thought wryly, when she had been satisfied too. Poor Ron.

Extinguishing the light, she crawled in beside him, as quietly as she could. He had been pretty clear that she was welcome, and did seem to have left space for her. But she didn’t want to disturb him, if he’d already fallen asleep.

She shouldn’t have underestimated the old dog instincts. Sirius shifted, and a warm arm came around her. Hermione settled in close, smiling in the dark. Sirius’s breathing grew steady again behind her.

After a little while, half asleep, she had a pleasant thought. The pleasant thought, stealthy and sweet, was that she could see herself getting used to this.


	16. Negotiations

Chapter Sixteen

Hermione was beginning to suspect that Sirius had an ulterior motive for letting her keep sleeping in his bed. Or rather, an ulterior motive beyond the obvious. She was fairly sure he was having nightmares. They didn’t talk about it, but it had happened twice now.

The first time she had woken in the middle of the night to find Sirius wide awake and unusually tense beside her. When he noticed that she was awake too, he had pulled her in against him wordlessly, and she had felt how his heart was hammering in his chest. She had trailed kisses along his collarbone, and his breathing had gradually quieted, his hands moving through her hair until they both grew sufficiently sleepy again.

The second time, she had woken to find him still asleep, twitching and flinching in the grip of some dream. She had been afraid to alarm him by waking him, but his face had spoken of such anguish. She’d run her fingers gently along the crease between his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth. Soothing fingers at his temples had startled him awake, and he’d shied away, breathless. When his eyes had focused on hers in the dark, though, he had rolled over to find her mouth with his, and they had made love, drowsy and sudden. Which, she had granted, as they drifted off again more entangled, was another kind of soothing.

It had occurred to her that if he was spending the nights with her, it meant that he perforce was not spending them as Padfoot, nightmares or no nightmares. Hermione couldn’t help wondering if that was part of it. Maybe he was weaning himself off the animagus form, practicing becoming normal again.

Not that Sirius was giving her any reason to doubt his enthusiasm with regard to her company in its own right. This particular morning, in fact, she could almost wish he would be a little bit _less_ enthusiastic. 

“Sirius, what have you done with my alarm?”

An infuriating look of satisfaction. “It’ll come get you in plenty of time. Have I made you late so far this week?”

She was narrowing her eyes up at him. “Not _quite_.”

“Such _stress_ , so early in the morning. You’re going to give yourself a gray hair, kitten.” He was holding her hands hostage on the pillow up above her head while he spoke, which made it difficult to swat at him. This added insult to the injury of generally shameless distraction tactics, like the way he was currently running his tongue up the column of her throat.

“That would be terrible. People might think I was closer to your age.”

“I know,” he said, pausing every few words to brush kisses against her ear, her jaw, her neck. “Imagine – if they couldn’t tell – at a glance – how horrifically I’m corrupting you. Where would my reputation be? In the dust, that’s where. Shattered. Move your legs _further apart_ , witch, not _closer_.” He had removed one of his hands from hers in order to put it to better use, and she felt her breath hitch. Merlin, he was really figuring out just exactly what to do with his hands these days. He was looking irritatingly pleased with himself.

She was trying to frown. “ _Sirius…_ ”

“ _Siriuuuus_ ,” he mocked, and leaned his forehead against hers. “Tell me to stop, kitten.” His eyes were very close, half-challenging and half-merry.

She wrinkled her nose at him.

He grinned. “That’s what I thought. Now, before either of us works up a gray hair–” He found her mouth for a proper kiss, and then shifted their hips. The feeling of him inside her was becoming familiar, but they both drew in their breaths at the sensation all the same. Teasingly, Sirius still wouldn’t release her arms, and she found that she rather relished the way he was looking down at her from this angle as they moved together. She was a captive in his bed, for the moment.

True to his word, he had her breaking over the edge, shuddering ecstatically in his grip, with moments to spare before her alarm crept its way under the door and commenced a mournful cheeping beside the bed. Amusingly, it was the beeping sound that seemed to push Sirius over the edge, leaving him half-convulsed on top of her.

“My alarm does it for you, huh?” she murmured against his ear.

“Don’t give me any ideas,” was the somewhat concerning mumbled response.

Then, Hermione processed the time on the alarm’s face. “ _SIRIUS_ ,” she squawked, scrambling out from underneath him.

He had rolled over onto the bed, looking distinctly unrepentant. “You’ll be _fine_. Skip your face cream, or whatever it is.”

“Sure, I’ll be _fine_ , but that doesn’t mean I’ll be _happy_ about–why are you SMILING?” She was stifling an urge to actually stamp her foot.

“You’re hot when you’re naked and angry.”

She leveled a finger at him. “That won’t get you points. You can’t keep rearranging my–Helga bloody Hufflepuff, stop _leering_ at me with your–your _smug_ face.” She grabbed her wand up off the night stand and summoned her nightgown, holding it over herself like a shield. “We will _talk_ about this. _Later_.”

“Have a good day at work, little cat.”

If it weren’t for Harry and Ginny, Hermione would have slammed his door.

…

It was a very lucky thing for Sirius that Hermione got to work with several minutes to spare before her meeting with Fenshaw. Less lucky for him that she had been forced to skip her hair maintenance routine, and would now be frizzy and irritable for the rest of the day. She pinned the whole mess back, and tried to set the thought aside. She would deal with _him_ later.

Right now, there were more important hurdles to be faced.

Fenshaw was scribbling notes with a long red quill, brow furrowed over her notebook, as she always did for the first few minutes of their meetings. But Nero the cat had been staring at Hermione ever since she sat down, and she couldn’t shake a feeling that he knew something. He stood up now, as he never did, and jumped down off of the bookshelf. He landed in the sea of papers and slunk over to wind around Hermione’s ankles, sniffing intently. When she put down an inviting hand, he looked up at her with wide yellow eyes. She drew the hand back.

Fenshaw had put down her quill. “You smell different, Granger. Why?”

Hermione blinked. She had thought about this, and decided there was only one wise course. “Something rather big to update you on, actually. I was keeping it quiet until I knew it had worked, mostly because I was,” she looked at her hands, “embarrassed to fail, but I’ve become an animagus for my research. I’m hoping to get it registered by the end of the week.”

Fenshaw had raised her eyebrows, somewhat coolly. “Interesting. What prompted this?”

“I came across discussion of the magical identity–I’ve almost been thinking of it as magical DNA–that’s accessed in becoming an animagus. I was wondering if finding my own might be a kind of map to rebuilding my parents’ memories. The ones that are crucial to their magical… DNA’s. Emotions seemed to be the key to finding mine.”

“You might go ahead and call it a ‘soul,’ Granger.” Fenshaw was smiling, slightly. “Though certain colleagues down the hall would contest that violently. You could well be onto something. A great many of the most powerful magics all come down to emotion in the end–love magics, deadly curses. Dementors, veelas, thestrals.”

“The love of Harry’s mother,” said Hermione, just thinking of it.

“Yes. The Potter boy’s scar. Emotion is at the heart of a lot of big magic. You might as well take a crack at memory with it. How do you plan to start?”

Hermione ignored a flutter of nerves. “Collecting my memories of them, the ones that… resonate with my-” she caught Fenshaw’s eyes “-my ‘soul.’ And then, well–it’s a bit bold, but I was thinking of using those memories to seed a new Rementire spell.”

Fenshaw smacked her hand on the desk, making Nero jump. “Ballsy. I like it. Let them regrow new memories _again_ , based on foundations as close to their old selves as they can get. If this goes well, Granger, we may have to work hard to keep St. Mungo’s from snatching you away from us.”

Hermione was blushing a bit. “Excellent. I’ll—uh, get started, then.”

She waited until she was in the hallway to hop up and down several times in silent celebration. She’d done it. Now for the hard part.

By the end of the morning, Hermione’s cheer had quite drained. Seeing her parents did that to her, the way they were now.

She held her office door open, and the man who had been her father walked out with a cordial nod. An Obliviator waited for him in the hallway. As far as Wendell Wilkins currently knew, he had just endured a very strange performance review for his laboratory job. As far as he would know by the time he was back at the laboratory in question, he had had a perfectly boring lunch and would not be shopping at that bodega again–the sandwiches were overpriced.

Hermione pressed her papers into an aggressively neat stack, ignoring the lump in her throat. Then she shrugged off her outermost Unspeakable layer and grabbed her purse; she and the others had taken to going outside for lunch. Staying in the Department of Mysteries without reprieve eventually built up an eerie pressure, like working underwater.

Luna, Dorian, and Priscilla were waiting in the hallway. Luna’s face filled with sympathy when she saw Hermione. “How was he?”

“My dad? Doesn’t recognize anything about me. But that’s expected.”

Priscilla frowned. “I still do not believe this. Memories, they are one thing. But a parent would always– _always_ –know their child. Somewhere in their heart.”

Luna looked at her. “It can be so hard to know, though. How someone’s mind can be warped by magic.”

Priscilla’s eyes were dark. “ _I_ know. I had a child. I would know him, anywhere. Somewhere in my heart. I think your parents, they still know you, Hermione. Only it is beyond reach, right now.”

Hermione was oddly moved, both by Priscilla’s revelation, and by that way of putting it.

Dorian was staring at his sister. “Priscille. You just said you had a child.”

Priscilla raised her eyebrows.

Dorian looked as if he might be about to cry. “Did you mean this?”

Priscilla’s face darkened. “Of _course_.”

Dorian put a hand to his head. “I-I’m sorry, Priscille. I had… forgotten, I think. In the Veil.” He seemed shaken, and almost frightened.

Luna took Dorian’s arm, her face filled with concern. Hermione stepped ahead with Priscilla, mostly to give the two some privacy. She was beginning to wonder if Dorian needed more people to talk to.

“Your project goes well, Hermione?”

Of course, now Hermione was stuck talking to the medieval witch. Priscilla’s face had lost its pain already, like ripples fading from a dark pool. The woman changed so quickly. And yet, something in the way she had spoken of her child left Hermione absolutely convinced that her words were true. Not that Hermione liked Priscilla all that much better for it. Hermione bit the bullet, though, and spoke with her of pensieves and animagi, all the way to lunch.

…

Sirius was on good behavior all throughout dinner, only pressing his knee against Hermione’s under the table. He even made a point of complimenting Kreacher on the chicken, which the elf seemed to find profoundly disconcerting. This was a low tactic from Sirius, but Hermione couldn’t deny that it warmed her heart a little bit. Particularly when Kreacher proceeded to slop a second serving onto his master’s plate and then suspiciously wait to observe him eat every last bite.

After Hermione dropped off her work robes, she knocked on Sirius’s door and entered to find him lounging on the bed in all his day clothes, demurely reading a book.

She put her hands on her hips. “Isn’t this a gentle domestic picture. Are you just being nice, or have you got something up your sleeve?”

Sirius lowered the book, and picked up his wand from the bedside table. “Me? Something up my sleeve?”

Hermione drew her own wand out of her pocket. “What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” Gray eyes full of innocence. Why did he have such long eyelashes? That had been irritating Hermione for days, once she noticed it properly. It was unfair.

She took a wary step closer.

And Sirius delicately flicked his wand, Vanishing her shirt.

Hermione gaped down at her bra, and then up at him. “Of all the-” She raised her wand and began to stride towards him, half angry and half amused. Then he Vanished her pants.

“That’s it. _Incarcerous_.” Ropes burst out of Hermione’s wand, and Sirius was promptly bound quite firmly to the headboard, letting out a bark of a laugh. “ _Expelliarmus_ ,” added Hermione, for good measure.

Sirius was grinning like an idiot. “You are glorious, little witch.”

Hermione suppressed a smirk, climbing up onto the bed and straddling his lap. She placed the tip of her wand against his throat. “Careful. I could gag you, too.”

He was looking at her from beneath half-lowered lids, with a dark sort of edge to the expression that made her blood heat. “Please don’t.”

She pressed the wand in a little, enjoying the way he bit his lip. “Why not?”

“Much harder to kiss you if I’m gagged.”

She leaned in close. “What makes you think I want to kiss you?”

He tried to tilt his head, and her mouth was just out of reach. “Merlin. This is tight. Come closer.”

She brought her mouth within a whisper of his, and pulled back whenever he moved, just enough to keep their lips from touching. Sirius’s eyebrows had lowered in frustration, but a grin played about his mouth. Then she pressed her lips to his ear, and murmured, “You’ve lost your privileges. I’m in charge.”

Something between a laugh and a groan announced his approval, as she moved her tongue against the part of his ear she had kissed.

She could feel the effect she was having on him already as she unzipped his pants. When she scooted lower and moved her head downwards, she discovered that another thing Sirius could do while ungagged was curse. Fervently, and frequently. And really quite creatively, up until Hermione figured out a certain knack with her tongue.

She didn’t let him kiss her until she was riding him, and they were both nearing the edge. With his teeth against her neck and her hands fisted in his hair, it barely resembled kissing at that point anyway.

Afterwards, Hermione disappeared the ropes and Sirius wrapped an arm under her head while they lay on the bed, sweaty and catching their breath.

When some time had passed, he cleared his throat. “So. How was your day?”

Hermione laughed, and rolled over to look down at him. “Fine. Fenshaw approved my plan, and I might get to–to try the final step soon. A few weeks at most, I think.” She’d been skirting around the details to maintain Departmental secrecy, but Sirius knew she was trying to bring her parents back.

His eyes were warm. “Excellent. Not that I had any doubts.”

Hermione allowed herself a small smile. Then she poked at his chest. “None of which is thanks to your stunt this morning. You have to stop messing with my timing without asking, it stresses me out.”

Sirius touched her nose with the tip of a finger. “Can’t promise to stop messing with you. Can promise to stop doing it before you’re working, though. My goal,” his finger dropped to her lips, moving softly over them, “is not to stress you out.”

His expression was even a bit contrite, so Hermione narrowed her eyes and cuddled in against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. “Good.” 

His fingers moved through her hair, toying with the odd curl. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to mention. We don’t always have to be in my room. If you don’t want. It’s just sort of fallen out that way.”

This seemed like an olive branch, offering her a way to have things more on her own terms. And anyway, she wanted to stop feeling like her room still belonged partially to Ron. “Do you want to sleep in my room tonight, then?”

She looked up to catch the edge of Sirius’s grin. “By all means, little witch.”

They brushed their teeth watching each other’s faces in the mirror, which still felt silly and domestic and warm after a week of it. Sirius rested his hand against Hermione’s neck, finding marks his mouth and teeth had left and gently touching each one, as if to point them out to her. She smiled at his reflection. She would glamour the marks away in the morning.

She had yet to do her “face creams or whatever,” as Sirius put it, so he got to her room before she did. By the time she walked in, he was lying upside down on her bed reading a hot pink booklet. The lurid gift basket that Ginny had gotten Hermione for her birthday sat on the ground beside the bed.

Hermione was mostly just impressed. “You were in here for all of four minutes. How in Merlin’s name did you find that? I _enchanted_ that to stay… away.”

The corner of Sirius’s mouth curved. “A magician never reveals his secrets, Hermione. That’s muggle wisdom, I shouldn’t be telling you.” He turned a page. “You know, they say that books fall open to the pages you read the most.”

Hermione climbed onto the bed next to him. “I do know that. If you want to be a truly thorough reader though, Sirius, you should probably take notes.” She kept a straight face at his look. “Trust me. I’m known for my… reading.”


	17. Rewards and Revelations

Chapter Seventeen

On the day of the first proper snow, Sirius wanted to take Teddy to build a snowman. The toddler had just about gotten walking figured out, and there was, if Sirius recalled, a field in Godric’s Hollow that was perfect for this kind of thing. This attached Harry to the plan, and before long they were all making an afternoon of it. Even Andromeda tagged along, though she leaned mostly towards sitting on the bench in her fur-lined coat and looking benevolent. There were too many snowballs flying, she informed them, for someone of her dignity.

The others had no such qualms. Before long, the partially constructed snowman was named Vernon and abandoned, and battle lines were drawn. Harry and Ginny naturally teamed up. Hermione was glad that this left her with an obvious reason to join Sirius. Harry claimed Teddy for his team, calling rights of godparenthood.

“Right,” said Sirius, gesturing Hermione closer. He had leveled off their snow barricade to his satisfaction, and they were crouching behind it, just peering over the top. “Listen. Total annihilation is obviously the goal.” He was summoning snowballs, now, stockpiling them at their feet. “But the stealth prize here is Teddy.”

“Of course. How can we win without him?”

A grin. “You feel me, woman. Now, I’m thinking, I distract them while you grab the kid. They won’t see it coming from you.”

Hermione smirked. “I’ll do you one better–I’ll sneak over as an otter, and they _literally_ won’t see it coming.”

Sirius’s grin widened. “You’re sure I’m not allowed to kiss you? Only Dromeda would see. And I’ll tell you, the woman don’t scare easy.”

Hermione shook her head. Though it was hard to be strict with him when he was like this. He had a way of tail-wagging right past her defenses. “Give me a few more weeks before we go public. Ron and I dated for years, I feel like there’s still a respect period to wait out.”

Sirius’s smile had gone a bit crooked. “I’m in no rush, then.” He tilted his head. “As long as that’s why, though. Are you worried about how people are going to take it?”

“Take what?”

“Us. Together.”

“Oh.” Hermione blinked. “You mean if they’ll disapprove? Honestly, I couldn’t care. It’s not particularly their business to have an opinion. Not to mention, it’s not me they’d be judging so much as you… Sorry,” she added, at his expression.

“Oh, no, I’m more than used to it.”

Hermione smiled. “True. And anyway, it’s hard to imagine that any of my real friends will disapprove once they see how–how happy I am.” She was looking at the snowballs that she was packing now, feeling herself flush. Trust her to land herself in a sappy word puddle, just when she’d been being so-

Sirius’s fingers found her chin, and she looked up. His eyes were dancing. “Dromeda’s nose-deep in a book, I’m seizing my moment.” And he pulled her in for a kiss, just in time for a large snowball to explode onto their heads.

They sputtered apart. “Alright,” said Sirius, pulling icy hair back out of his eyes, “Code red. You go otter, I’ll open fire.”

Laughing, Hermione crouched and in a moment was off into the bushes on four paws.

Harry and Ginny had an assembly line going, Harry shaping snowballs at lightning speed and passing them off to Ginny, who zipped them off towards Sirius each time she lunged up past their barricade. She seemed to be getting more creative with her approach, dodging and weaving as Hermione crept closer–it seemed from the state of her hair like Sirius had landed several hits.

All of a sudden, Ginny stopped moving, and Hermione froze.

“Harry,” said the redhead. “Why has it gone quiet?”

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, frowning. “Not good. They’re planning something.” He handed his snowball to Teddy, who was giggling on top of a heap of them, and joined Ginny. They crouched against their snow wall to look up over the edge. “Is that… Merlin’s balls, look out!”

They came scrambling back as a barrage of dozens of snowballs began hitting their barricade, collapsing the snow in on them.

Hermione took her cue. With a jump and a skitter, she was out of the bushes and over to a startled Teddy. Then she was grabbing him up into her arms, and running like all hell across the field and back to Sirius while Teddy screamed joyously and the others pelted her back with snow.

“Hermione! You traitor! Bring him back, you– _accio baby!_ ”

“Doesn’t work on people, Harry!” Hermione ducked, narrowly avoiding a red spell. She squeaked, and held Teddy closer as she scrambled. “Cheating, Ginny! Snow only!”

“Child snatcher!”

Hermione reached the wall, and Sirius seized Teddy from her with absolute delight, holding him aloft like a trophy. “Teddy! Prince of our fortress! Long may you reign.” And he kissed the toddler on the nose, who squealed, turned his own hair and eyes black and gray in approval, and got a firm grip in his cousin’s long hair with chubby little fists. It took Hermione a moment to prize the baby’s fingers free, while Sirius muttered, “Ow, ow,” and Teddy beamed, at which point they were all being bombarded with snow from above.

“Sisi!” declared Teddy when Hermione would have lifted him out of the firing zone, and he clung to Sirius’s shirt. Sirius had worked his wand arm free, and was firing off snow largely at random while he held the toddler steady with his other hand.

“ _Sisi_?”

“We’re _working_ on ‘Sirius.’ It’s got a bunch of syllables.”

Hermione grinned. “I’d better just try for ‘Hermy,’ then.” Sirius cringed. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” She hopped up to launch a siphon that took out part of Harry and Ginny’s wall, buying them some time.

The fight was valiant, but before long, Harry and Ginny–fueled, perhaps, by revenge–had collapsed the majority of the barricade, and Sirius and Hermione sheltered under a magical shield alone. A positive storm of snow rained down on them.

Sirius was laughing, as he pushed Teddy towards Hermione. “Go! Save yourselves! Go with ’Mione, Teddy!” He kissed the toddler on the forehead, and Hermione accepted the squirming bundle.

“We could just say we give up, Sirius.”

“Live free or die, Hermione! I go down with this ship.”

Hermione spat some snow out of her mouth, shook her head, and made a dash for Andromeda’s bench with Teddy under one arm.

Over on the bench, it was a beautifully sunny early winter day. A witch with a pair of small boys had settled on the bench further down from Andromeda, and once Hermione and Teddy had both caught their breath, Hermione set the little boy down to meet the other two children. He seemed none the worse for his wintery adventure, though Andromeda was eyeing the state of his coat with mild concern. Hermione sank onto the bench between the two women.

The unfamiliar witch smiled at Hermione. She gestured at Teddy, and at Sirius further down the hill. “Your boy is so sweet–he’s the spitting image of his papa!”

Hermione turned approximately the color of a tomato. “Oh, I’m not–he’s not–”

“He’s mine,” said Andromeda smoothly, leaning forward. “Sirius down there is his cousin, but Teddy here looks rather less like him when he’s not playing games. Teddy!” The boy looked up. “Do you want to turn your hair blue for the nice lady? How would it look _blue_?”

Teddy obliged with a searing aqua, and the witch’s eyes widened. The other two boys looked deeply impressed.

“I–that’s–oh, my,” managed the witch, with a weak smile, and before long she had returned to her magazine.

Hermione tried to give Andromeda a grateful look. The older woman only raised an eyebrow, and Hermione couldn’t help feeling like it was a knowing sort of eyebrow. Oh, dear.

When Sirius had been soundly beaten enough to confess defeat–at wandpoint, and buried under a heap of snow–they all made the trudge back to the center of town together for hot chocolate. On the way, Andromeda volunteered a piece of gossip, of particular interest to Harry. Lucius Malfoy, it seemed, had been locked up for good.

“They finally tracked him down?” Hermione was impressed. The man had been on the run since the Battle of Hogwarts itself.

Andromeda nodded. “In Switzerland. Not very original, but then, it was Lucius. Sirius, I’ve been thinking that, as more or less the only ones left, it might be down to us to reconnect with… my sister, and her son. Now that Lucius is gone, I have to wonder if they still want to be–”

“Spineless gits?” offered Sirius.

“I was going to say pariahs,” said Andromeda, with a quelling look.

“As much,” said Harry, “as I’m not the biggest Malfoy fan,” –a universal snort– “I will point out that Narcissa saved my life there at the end, arguably. Draco too, in a way, if you consider his–well, that one gets complicated. But still,” he shrugged. “I’ve seen them try to be better.”

Sirius was frowning. “You didn’t tell me about Narcissa saving your life. I mean, Helga bloody Hufflepuff, I’ll buy her flowers, only I think it might more frighten her than anything, given our… history.”

“It can’t,” said Andromeda dryly, “be worse than ours. Just back me up, Sirius. It might help in healing some of the–the fractures, these days, in the old pureblood crowd. Letting them fester helps nothing.”

Hermione poked Sirius’s arm. “She’s right. And just think–if you befriend Draco Malfoy, you might find out what his patronus is, and put those ferret jokes to bed once and for all.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “ _Befriend_ is a strong word. But I’ll think on it. Send me a date when you have one, Dromeda. I’m not having them in my house, but I might be persuaded to show up.”

Andromeda nodded. “Fair. Now, if only I could get you to listen on other fronts, cousin of mine–it still boggles my mind to see you working in a joke shop when you’re one of the only sane purebloods left.”

“You used to like jokes, Dromeda.”

“Yes. Well.” Her smile was bone dry. “Maybe I’m old and sad. You could be on the Wizengamot, Sirius. Much as I hate it, the Black name still matters to some people.”

Sirius was shaking his head. “Not to me. I’d give it up in a heartbeat. And anyway, I’m fairly sure I’d be kicked _off_ the Wizengamot in about a day, if they’ve got a brain between them. Tell you this, though–I’m not wasting my time, Dromeda. Right now, George and I are working on a security device that proves magical identity, or lack of it, for anyone who walks through.”

“Like a scanner?” said Harry. Hermione was thinking the same thing.

Sirius blinked. “I don’t know what that is. Anyway, the Ministry commissioned them. They’re supposed to help with the Statute of Secrecy, after all the damage in the war. But George and I realized pretty quickly that they’ll have a huge side effect. Because they detect pure magical identity, they’ll show no difference between purebloods and muggle-borns. Not that anyone sane needed it,” his voice had quieted, as he realized, perhaps, how serious his words were, “but it will be absolute proof that muggle-borns are no different from the rest of us. That magic itself can find no difference in their–their souls. Or whatever you want to call it. We’re releasing an article on how the magic works when the device is out, to leave no room for doubt.”

Hermione had stopped walking.

“Of course,” Sirius was saying, not looking at her, “monsters are still going to find ways to quibble. Who made the device, can we trust them. What is a soul anyway. But it’s, well–”

“It pushes them further,” said Harry. “Weights the scales that much more solidly against them. Lumps them that much more firmly in with the crackpots. That’s amazing, Sirius.”

Ginny had fallen back to hold Hermione’s hand, and she was squeezing it. There were tears gathering in Hermione’s eyes. She wiped them away hastily with her sleeve. She was beaming.

“It’s… in progress,” said Sirius. “Anyway. Does anyone else smell hot chocolate?”

Hermione had decided that head-on gratitude ran the risk of spooking Sirius. She’d been crushing a general urge, recently, to express to him how much he was starting to mean to her. And then, to find out he’d been quietly working on a project calculated to help heal one of her deepest pains, without even telling her about it…

Well. Hermione was in a very good mood with her irritating wizard, this particular evening. And she’d settled on a way of letting him know.

When she’d arranged herself to her satisfaction, she sent a memo zipping off under her door. A tap came a few moments later, and an amused Sirius followed.

“You… sent… for me?” He was dangling the memo between two fingers, like something he didn’t want to touch too much. Then he stopped, taking in the sight of her. The corner of his mouth rose, slowly. Hermione had found her laciest black bra and panties, and acquired a pair of thigh-high tights to match.

“I did.” She drew her knees further up, coyly.

“Been shopping, kitten?” He was leaning against the doorframe, memo forgotten.

“Maybe. See anything you like?”

The way he met her eyes made Hermione shiver in anticipation. Then he took a step into the room. So she raised her wand, and Vanished his shirt.

He was quicker to the trigger than she had been. Shock faded to a grin–a muttered “ _Incarcerous_ ,” and Hermione was splayed against the headboard, arms and torso bound firm.

Sirius settled onto the bed in front of her, and ran his wand from her neck to her navel, lingering in a way that sent whispers of excitement over her skin. “Mischievous witch.” He cupped his hand around her cheek. When he moved his thumb across her lips, she caught it in her mouth.

His eyes darkened, and he moved in to kiss her, biting her lower lip between his teeth gently. His mouth curved at the small noise she made. Then he drew back. “I think these ropes could use some rearranging.”

A flick of his wand, and he drew one up towards Hermione’s face. He raised an eyebrow to check, and Hermione smirked before opening her mouth to accept the rope between her teeth. He tied it gently, and murmured against her ear, “Snap your fingers if you want me to stop, kitten.”

She nodded, and he was pulling her legs apart, tying them in place. She thought she felt vulnerable and exposed already, but then he rearranged the ropes to leave her chest bare. And Vanished her bra and knickers.

She could almost feel his gaze, moving over her. He ran his hands down the tights, along her legs. “These,” he murmured, “can stay, I think.”

Then he moved in, pressing kisses along her neck, exploring her exposed chest with his mouth. When she had made enough soft noises for his satisfaction, perhaps, he leaned down and kissed her thigh, bare above the stocking. 

He looked up so that he could watch her face as he slid fingers into her. He grinned, then, and said softly, “Eager little witch,” and Hermione shifted and gasped at the movement.

Then Sirius pulled his hand away, and picked up his wand. “Do you trust me, kitten?” There was a playful edge to his look. Hermione nodded, feeling fluttery and wary. He leaned in, and for a moment he was doing something unspeakable and wonderful with his tongue and Hermione was limp with lust. But then he drew back and pushed her legs even further apart, and, as she froze with shock and fascination, he pushed the tip of his wand inside her. He eased it a few inches further in, watching her face, and then he murmured something under his breath and drew it out.

A buzzing feeling filled Hermione, unlike anything she had felt before, hitting just exactly where– she was squirming against the bonds, bucking her hips in frantic search of– she wanted– she wanted–

Then Sirius was inside her, slamming against her senses, and his stubble was rough against her neck, and his every movement was like a small explosion of the most sublime sensation. She lost all concept of herself, knowing only what she was feeling for what could have been an eternity or just moments. 

Before she quite knew it, she was coming apart against him in wave after wave of ecstasy. She lost count, and hung against him in a limp haze of glory as he worked through her to his own completion, pressing her against the headboard with frantic urgency.

Afterwards, he had to catch his breath for a bit before he could release her from the ropes. She sank down and snuggled in with her head on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. She felt pleasantly used, though that might mean soreness in the morning.

“What,” she managed after a minute or two, “was that incredible spell?”

A low chuckle. “You’ve got Ginny’s book to thank for that one. Much as I’d like to claim sole credit.”

Hermione trailed a hand over his chest, enjoying the roughness. “I give you the credit. Ginny only got it to torture me.”

“You mean you didn’t feel tortured?”

Hermione looked up to find his face. “Well, now that you put it that way–”

He was shaking his head, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No use, witch. I’m going to have to try harder next time.”

Hermione shifted up, so that she could tuck her head under his chin, and his arm came around her. “I’ll wait in fear.” He was tracing lazy circles on her back with his fingers, and she thought she might drift off just like this.

Then she remembered. His defenses were down. “By the way,” she said. Addressing his collarbone, softly. “I like that project that you and George are working on. The one for the Ministry.”

“You do?” His fingers had slowed.

“Yeah. I like it a lot.”

“Oh. Good.” He resumed tracing the circles.

“Mmhm.” Hermione pressed a kiss to his neck, and then settled her head back down. He began moving his fingers through her hair. And that, it seemed, was that.

Hermione woke to find Sirius still sound asleep. It was Sunday, and she could sleep in as long as she wanted, but her body didn’t know that. Sunlight was pouring in her window and falling across Sirius’s face and shoulders. Hermione usually curled up in her sleep, cuddling a pillow between her arms. Sirius was a sprawler. He was taking up a good two thirds of the bed, like a sleeping starfish.

Hermione didn’t mind. She was looking at the way the sun hit his hair, splayed across the pillow and over his face. She pulled a lock of hair away from his forehead, and he wrinkled his nose in his sleep. He had gotten more comfortable with her. Pain lines still showed in Sirius’s face while he slept–grooves beside his nose, between his eyebrows–and they probably always would. But he looked relaxed, now. And, Hermione fancied, not so very old at all.

A knock sounded on her door, then, and Hermione flinched. “Hermione? Are you awake? I need to talk to you!” Ginny’s voice.

Hermione was feeling for her wand–it seemed to have fallen off the bedside table. “Yes, I’m awake! Just give me a few–”

Then the door was swinging open, and it was all Hermione could do to pull the sheet up to her chin before the redhead stepped cheerfully into the room. And stopped short, looking as if she had just been Confunded.

Sirius propped himself up on one elbow beside Hermione, pushing hair out of his face and yawning mightily. Then he managed a “Morning, Ginny,” and smiled. For all the world as if this were a normal way to encounter his housemate. Hermione brought the sheet up over her nose at this point, so that only her eyes were showing. She was fairly sure that the rest of her face had been burned away by the force of her blush in any case.

Ginny gaped for the space of about twelve seconds, looking back and forth between them, and then she began to hop up and down. “I – _knew_ – it! I _KNEW_ IT, you–you MINX!” She was pointing her wand at Hermione, apparently mostly for emphasis, looking caught between outrage and delight. “I’ve been calling this for WEEKS! How could you keep this a secret from _me_? ME? I LIVE for this! And to think, I’ve been over here, trying to set you up with–” She had been pacing a frenetic circle, and now she whirled, pointing her wand at the both of them again. “How long has this been going on? Under my _roof_ , Hermione? Where’s the _loyalty_?”

“I mean, my roof, to be fair,” said Sirius.

“Shut up,” said Ginny. “I’m not speaking to you until you’re wearing pants. Friend seducer. How _long_ , Hermione!”

“She might,” murmured Sirius, “be troubled by the fact that your wand is smoking.”

Ginny looked down at it. “Still not speaking to you.” She did, however, lower her wand.

Hermione wasn’t sure if she was terrified or trying not to giggle. “I… it wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell you, Gin,”–a muffled snort from Sirius, which earned him an elbow to the ribs–“It’s that I didn’t want to hurt Ron’s feelings, or anyone’s, by making it seem like I was cheating on him. Which I wasn’t, to be clear. I just thought it would be more, um, polite. To wait.”

Sirius had leaned back with his arms behind his head. “She insists,” he informed Ginny, “that it’s _not_ that she’s worried about how people are going to take… this.”

Ginny was grinning at this point, and she scooted up onto the edge of the dresser to sit, with the somewhat sinister air of settling in for a gossip. “Oh? Well, she should be. Mum’s going to _freak_. I’d pay good money to be there when McGonagall finds out.” Hermione closed her eyes for a moment. She hadn’t thought of that one. “I, however,” continued Ginny, “think this is brilliant. For one thing, Hermione, you’re about the only one I know who could keep a knucklehead like Sirius in line without getting trampled.”

“Thanks,” muttered Sirius.

Ginny’s smile didn’t waver, as if she hadn’t heard him. “I wonder, though,” she said, savoringly, “how Harry is going to take this.”

Hermione’s stomach sank. “Do we… have to tell him? Now, I mean?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Do you really think he’s not going to realize that I’m hiding something? I’d give it a day, tops, maybe a few hours. Honestly, I think he’s already been feeling like you’re up to something. We haven’t talked about it, but he keeps making faces.”

Hermione sighed. “Am I _really_ that obvious? Does everybody just know at this point?”

Ginny’s nostrils flared. “Why? Who else knows?”

Oops. “…Luna,” Hermione admitted. “She figured it out the weekend after Halloween.”

“The weekend after– _you’ve been up to this since HALLOWEEN?_ ”

Hermione drew the sheet up over her nose again.

“By the way,” said Sirius. “I think I’m finally allowed to say what an excellent job you did with that cat costume. Top notch, really.”

Ginny was speechless for a moment and then she hopped down, picked Sirius’s shirt up off the floor, and threw it at him, hitting him square in the face. Ginny had a good throwing arm. “You two,” she said, gesturing her wand at the both of them, “are telling Harry _today_. I’ll be downstairs. Waiting.” And she stormed out of the room, closing the door behind her with a bang.

“Well,” said Sirius, lowering his shirt. “That could have gone worse.”

Hermione shook her head. “Ginny’s easy. She’s a romantic, deep down, and the more scandalous, the better. Harry, though. I have no idea how he’ll react. Go put on something… non-threatening.”

“What does that mean?”

“Do you have anything… pastel?” Sirius’s expression would have been equally appropriate had “pastel” been an infectious disease. “Well, um,” said Hermione. “Something with a collar, then.”

When Sirius and Hermione reached the kitchen, Harry was sitting at the table buttering his toast, with the serene innocence of a man who did not yet know that his godfather was shagging his best friend. Ginny was standing by the counter where he couldn’t see her, making a breadknife look uniquely threatening.

Hermione slid meekly into the chair next to Harry, and accepted a plate from Kreacher. Oh, Merlin. Kreacher. Did he know, too? He probably knew. She avoided the elf’s eyes. Sirius sat opposite her. He was wearing plaid. Plaid was nice. Gentle.

After several moments of silence, Harry looked back and forth between them. He was grinning. “Guys? What’s going on? Did Ginny put you up to this?”

Sirius cleared his throat. “Uh, Harry. There’s something I need to tell you. We need to tell you.”

Harry’s grin had broadened. “Right. Well, there’s something I need to tell you, too. But you go first. This should be good.”

Sirius blinked. “Um. Well. Not sure how to say it, son.” He and Hermione both winced when they realized he’d called Harry ‘son.’ He was going to have to work that one out of his vocabulary. “Hm. Hermione and I are kind of dating.”

Harry actually spit his orange juice back into the glass, and it took Hermione a moment to realize that he was shaking with laughter.

He took his glasses off to wipe tears from his eyes, wheezing for air. “Merlin, Ginny, that one’s a right mental image, I give you points…” Then he put his glasses back on, and gradually realized that no one else was laughing. A few lingering laughs wheezed out, losing momentum, and then he was staring at them. “Sorry. What?” He stood up, backing away from the table, taking in Hermione’s stricken expression. “ _What?_ ” He looked at Ginny, as if for help, and then at Sirius, with mounting outrage.

Hermione seized Sirius’s hand from across the table, and widened her eyes at Harry. “It’s been, um, going really well, Harry. We thought it was time to tell you.”

Ginny scoffed. “Not so fast, ’Mione. They’re telling you today because I walked in on them earlier. They’ve been keeping it secret for _weeks_.”

Harry was running his hands through his hair, with the wide-eyed look of someone who had just witnessed a murder.

Hermione glared at Ginny. “I was saving Ron’s feelings, Harry,” she said. “You know how upset he’d be, so… soon. I was actually hoping that you both might, uh, still keep it quiet. From him. At least during the holidays. I know he’s staying at the Burrow, but…” She bit her lip.

Harry’s eyebrows were rising. “You want– I– I mean, yeah, Ron’d have an aneurism, but–” He leaned weakly against the counter, still staring. “You’re–you’re sure you’re not pulling my leg?”

“Fraid not,” said Sirius, about as meekly as Sirius ever said anything.

Hermione just shook her head.

“Blimey.” Harry looked pale. He waved his hands at them. “You guys sit–further that way. I need to process this.” Hermione and Sirius scooted down several places, and Harry resumed his spot at the head of the table. From there, he could rest his chin on his hand and look at both of them with haunted eyes. Ginny came over to pat his back soothingly.

Sirius decided that this was a good time to start crunching his toast.

“Sirius,” said Harry after a few moments, hollowly. “Aren’t you… like, forty?”

Sirius almost dropped the toast. “Oy! Thirty- _six_ , you animal! I didn’t age in the Veil, thank you very much. Though,” he frowned, “Come to think of it, I haven’t calculated exactly when my new birthday is. It might be soon…” He got up, rummaging by the counter for a paper and pen.

Hermione’s face was a deep red. “It’s in January, Sirius,” she murmured. “Also, if we count Time-turner time, I’m more like twenty-one. If that helps your brain at all, Harry.”

Harry’s head was in his hands, and Ginny was chuckling softly.

Hermione decided a change of subject was in order. “Anyway. Harry,” she said. Her tone came out egregiously chipper. “You said that you had something to tell us too?”

Harry looked up, blinking. “Oh. I–I…”

“No,” said Ginny. “No way. You guys sat on this for _weeks_ , you don’t get to know the thing. Don’t spill it, Harry. They’ll find out _later_.” She was crackling with an almost Mrs. Weasley-worthy level of wounded pride energy.

Hermione sighed, and decided that Sirius’s tactic might have been the wise one. She turned her attention to her toast.

…

Hermione wasn’t ready. She’d been preparing for this for weeks. Years, really. But as the St. Mungo’s staff left the room, the conviction was mounting in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t ready. This was going to go terribly wrong. And she was going to lose them all over again.

Then the door opened, and the people who had been her parents walked into the room. Hermione plastered on a smile. Puppet-like, stiff. “Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins. If you would care to take a seat?”

This was happening. They were here, and she wasn’t going to let her pathetic nerves stop her from saving them. She simply had to trust the work she had done. Or that was what she told herself as, hands trembling, she reached for the memory vials.

She had gathered each one with such care. Her father’s laughter, his quiet strength, the books he liked to read. Her mother’s dignity, and warmth, and the way she smiled. These glowed, silver, in the little glass bottles.

Wendell and Monica Wilkins were watching her with polite confusion. Right. “If you’ll excuse me,” Hermione muttered, “I’ll just make you a bit more comfortable.” She skirted behind them, and drew her wand. A quiet “ _Stupefy_ ” and they were lolling back in their chairs, blank-eyed.

Hermione hadn’t liked this part the first time, either.

She returned to the bottles, and uncorked one. Her fingers didn’t seem to want to cooperate. Moving almost by rote, Hermione began to swirl her wand, levitating the memories up and out. They floated over to her father, hovering above him like a ghostly constellation. “ _Rementire_ ,” whispered Hermione. And they were gone.

Not stopping to let herself worry, she repeated the process for her mother. She was achingly conscious, now, of the healer standing by the door, watching her every move.

She stood back, and raised her wand. “ _Rennervate_.”

Wendell and Monica Wilkins opened their eyes. They looked–confused. Flinching, as if the light was too bright. Monica began to look down at her clothes, picking at them with a growing frown. Wendell was rubbing his head. Then Monica looked up, and stopped moving.

She blinked for a few moments, as if her eyes weren’t focusing. Then she said, “Hermione? Is that you? Why are you standing there so quiet, sweetheart?”

Hermione’s father looked up at the words. “Hermione?” He found her, a smile breaking across his face. He held his arms out. “Where’ve you been, owlet?”

Hermione crashed into him, tears streaming down her cheeks. She could only shake her head into his shoulder. God, the smell of his sweater was just what it should be. She stifled a sob.

Her mother was stroking her hair, looking alarmed. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you–” And then she paused, wincing, and put a hand to her temple.

Hermione drew back. “What’s wrong, Mum? Does something hurt?”

Phoebe Granger shook her head. “Oh, it’s nothing, love. Just a headache. It’s this traveling, I think.”

Mark Granger was frowning. “You may be right, my head is hurting something terrible. The jetlag from Australia, I expect.”

Hermione felt afraid. And completely out of her depth. She turned, wiping tears away and trying to regain a calm, and the healer was already stepping over. She put a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, and looked at the two muggles. “Mr. and Mrs. Granger. You don’t remember it, but you’ve just undergone a complicated magical neurological procedure. The hospital advises bedrest first and foremost, and our healers will examine you to be sure that all is in working order. If you’ll follow me, I can show you to your room on our ward.”

“Your… ward?” said Mark.

Hermione squeezed his hand. “It’s St. Mungo’s, dad. I’ve told you about them. They’re the best. You’ll be well taken care of. And I’ll come see you, as soon–” she looked at the healer “–as soon as you’re ready for it.” She hugged him again, and her mother as well. “I love you.” She could hardly get the words out, past the lump in her throat.

Her parents looked very pale at this point. But as they disappeared down the hospital corridor, they looked back at Hermione and smiled.

Hermione was very glad that, after the events of the weekend, she could now step out of the fireplace at Grimmauld Place and launch herself right into Sirius’s arms regardless of Harry and Ginny’s presence. Ignoring everyone’s concerned looks, she buried her head in Sirius’s shoulder. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t going to cry. She just needed– Sirius wrapped his arms around her, holding tight, and she felt her lip tremble.

“Your parents?” he asked.

She nodded against his shoulder. She could almost hear Harry and Ginny shifting in surprise.

“Did it go well?”

She nodded again. She was clinging to him, gradually returning to something like an equilibrium.

He rubbed her back. “Alright, love. Do you want some–tea?”

She paused. Nodded.

“Kreacher, can you–” Sirius broke off, and Hermione lifted her head to look.

Kreacher was standing there, already offering a mug of tea. That did prompt a tear to leak out, before Hermione collected herself. “Thank you, Kreacher,” she sniffled.

Then she sat, nursing her tea, tucked in beneath Sirius’s arm. And Sirius, Ginny, and Harry continued their warm family dinner. Harry and Ginny made no more mention of Sirius dating Hermione, or how they felt about it. They all talked quite as if everything was fine and good.

And, Hermione supposed after a while, it probably was.


	18. Tainted Love

Chapter Eighteen

“ _I love you, baby! And if it’s quite alright, I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night_ …”

Hermione closed the door to the Hall of Death behind her, and looked down the steps in bemusement.

“ _You’re just too good to be truuee_ , _can’t take my eyes off of youuu…_ ”

“Luna,” called Hermione over the music. “What’s–” She hardly knew where to start, anymore. “What’s with the soundtrack?”

“ _Please let me know that it’s real…_ ”

“It’s Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, Hermione,” said Luna. “They’re an American muggle group. I think at least one of them is dead.”

“I’m… aware. Why are they echoing around the Hall?”

Dorian extracted himself from a wire apparatus on his desk, and looked up at Hermione with a grin. “Luna gave us a stereo. She tells us it used to be a muggle item, but it is enchanted now. We are playing music today to celebrate.”

“To celebrate… the stereo?”

Luna raised her arms, eyes wide. “You don’t know! The archway is done! We finished the archway yesterday afternoon!” And she gestured, as if to indicate the might of the accomplishment.

The archway looked much the same as it had been looking. Except, Hermione supposed, that all the stones were fully evened off now. It was still just a rounded piece of architecture. It lacked the Veil.

“Congratulations,” said Hermione. “How long do we think it will be until the Veil itself, then?”

Dorian frowned, and leaned back over his desk. “It is hard to say. Sorry, Hermione. I will… do my best. Priscilla and Luna are working on the cloth, if you wish to help.”

“ _You’re just too good to be truuuuuee_ ,” finished Frankie, to thunderous applause. From a live performance, apparently. It was odd to hear, standing in this empty amphitheater. Hermione almost shivered, and turned towards where the witches were working.

Some static, and Frankie began again, a gentler croon: “ _You’re hoooome again, I’m glad you kept the key. Been waiting here, it seemed a million years to me…”_

Hermione’s father was a Four Seasons fan. Her parents were still in St. Mungo’s, and she’d heard nothing of substance for three days. Their condition was stable. Stable, not better. She would owl again at lunch.

“ _Our love is gonna make it right! Put shadows way beyond recall, the ghost has almost gone… Fallen aaaaangel…_ ”

“Can we listen to something else?” asked Hermione. She’d take bloody Celestina Warbeck over this. Celestina wouldn’t make her want to cry.

Luna looked up, and smiled with some concern. “Sure. I’ve got a Weird Sisters album, give me a second.”

That would do. The metal sounds of “I’m on Fyre (Fiend Fyre) and I Wanna Burn” echoed through the Hall, and Luna rejoined them at the table. It was covered in a long, silvery cloth. Their job today was to slowly saturate the cloth in several methodical layers of a potion they had previously brewed, inch by inch. Priscilla offered Hermione a paintbrush.

Luna was still eyeing Hermione. She didn’t miss much. Drat. “Everything going alright, Hermione? You seem,” she paused, blinking. “…tense?”

As much as Hermione loved the fluffy-haired witch, she did _not_ want to talk about her parents. “Just some changes at home,” she offered. “Ginny and Harry found out about Sirius.” That was enough of an excuse for tension.

Luna’s eyes widened. “How did she–uh, they take it?”

“Ginny’s mostly delighted, I think, because it’s scandalous. Harry still seems kind of queasy, but he’s stopped staring at us whenever we sit near each other. So that’s… progress.”

Priscilla was looking back and forth between them. “This is something about Sirius Black?”

Hermione pursed her lips, and then nodded. Better to clarify this than have the medieval witch poking around asking questions. Particularly in front of a certain Weasley brother she’d been allegedly spending time with. “I’d prefer if you kept it between us for now, Priscilla, but yes. Sirius and I are dating.”

Priscilla’s dark eyebrows rose, but then she was smiling. “That is wonderful, Hermione. I hope you will be very happy. When I was–” she faltered a little, looking away as if to deny that emotion had crept into her voice. “When I was first courted by my husband, it was… wonderful. There are so few things I remember, you know. But that, I do. You will remember it too, I hope.” She smiled again, looking a bit shy to have said so much.

“Husband” was a strong word, but Hermione appreciated the sentiment. It was rare for the medieval witch to reach out like this, little olive branches that she offered from time to time. Hermione still couldn’t conceive of what it must be like for her, living in an alien world. At least Priscilla tried.

Priscilla had turned away, brushing her hands clean on her skirt as if to look busy. It seemed like she was suddenly embarrassed about her words. Then the music changed, an odd sweeping melody, and Priscilla looked up with a grin. “Dorian! Luna showed this one to us. Come, practice the dance with me!” And she held out a hand, summoning him.

He extracted himself obediently, and was there in a moment. With some initial awkwardness and pleased laughter from Luna, they began waltzing around the floor of the amphitheater. There was a boyish joy to Dorian dancing, like a golden retriever flailing around. Hermione found she was smiling in spite of herself.

Then they reached the base of the platform, and Priscilla hopped up, and Dorian stopped short. Priscilla held out a hand to him. “Come, brother! It is only stone, still. And how can we perform without a stage?”

Dorian shook his head. His face had drained. “Not in the mood, Priscille,” was all he would say, and then he was trudging back to his desk.

Priscilla looked, suddenly, like she might cry. Either that or break something. Hermione didn’t know why they had to make such a big deal over these things. If such a harmless little thing would make the witch happy– She walked over to the platform, and hopped up herself. “I’ll finish the song with you, Priscilla. We can show Dorian what proper dancing looks like.”

The witch seized her hand, smiling gratefully, and then they were off, spinning around the platform. Priscilla’s hair whipped through the air, Hermione tried not to trip over her feet, and she was feeling almost dizzy. And then Priscilla changed their angle, and they were dancing towards the archway itself. Hermione must have flinched a bit at the realization, for the witch gripped her tighter, and gleamed a white smile. Dorian made no move to stop them, though, so it couldn’t be dangerous–could it?

And then they were through the archway, and they stopped, and Hermione fell to her knees.

It was as if she’d been punched in the gut. A screaming echoed through her nerves, so that her very fingers tingled, and all of a sudden she was thinking of Sirius, and she was afraid. And angry. And–aroused? A flood of emotions bombarded her, and images hitting her mind’s eye, real and imagined and everything in between. Sirius, laughing, snow caught in his hair – Sirius, blank-eyed, falling backwards towards the shifting Veil – Sirius, eyes dark, starting to smirk as he walked towards her bed – Sirius, snarling, blood smeared down the side of his face – Sirius, fast asleep beside her – Sirius, gripping the bars of a cell, screaming his throat raw – Sirius…

Hermione clutched her head, and whimpered. And then, just as suddenly, it was gone. She felt the aftershocks of it–hiccups of fear, a twinge of desire–as she looked up and wiped tears from her eyes.

Priscilla had sunk to the ground beside her. The witch reached out and touched the stone of the archway with an expression of tenderness, almost. “I had not thought,” she said softly, “that it would be so powerful, so soon. My… apologies, Hermione. You feel it, yes?”

Hermione stared at her. “Yes,” she managed. “What–what in the name of Helga _bloody_ Hufflepuff was that?”

Priscilla let her hand run down the stone, an odd sort of caress. “Emotion,” she said, as if it were obvious. “The feeling of the archway. Surely you didn’t think death’s door was without emotion, Hermione? No, it feels. Much.” And she smiled at it, as if it were a clever archway for having rocked them to their core and sent them to their knees with its onslaught.

Hermione stood up. “Well. I’ll thank you not to lead me into any surprise ‘emotion’ again, if it’s not too much to ask.” Walking to the edge of the platform, she added another item to her lunchtime to-do list. Fenshaw needed to be updated. They were dealing with a force, here.

…

When Hermione apparated onto Andromeda’s street, she was already regretting that she’d agreed to come to this dinner. It had been a long day at work–Fenshaw was tense about the archway, adding extra Unspeakables to their team. And Hermione was still worried about her parents. More and more, though, that had been buried under recurring flashes from her trip through the archway. She would be walking down a hallway, or standing in the lift, and then–zap, her heart was pounding, her stomach was fluttering, she thought she could feel Sirius’s lips against her neck, she wanted to–to cry, maybe… And then it would be gone. She thought the episodes had been lasting longer, though, the later into the day it got. If it persisted tomorrow she would officially worry, she told herself, and try to do something about it.

In the meantime, she had to survive being polite. Hurrying down the sidewalk, she recognized a scruffy head passing under a streetlight ahead. “Harry!”

He waited for her to catch up, and gave her a small smile as they started walking again. Or she thought he did–he was swathed up to the ears in a scarf Mrs. Weasley had made him. It was bitterly cold for early December. “You know if Sirius is there yet?”

Hermione shrugged. “He’s a free agent. I’d bet no, though. He’s never on time.”

“Great. It’ll be you and me, then, with our dear old chum Draco.”

“What about Ginny?”

Harry grimaced. “She’s not coming. She’s… not ready to see Malfoys yet. There were threats of violence. I’ll bring her round. I think it’s important to Dromeda. And, honestly, I like not fighting.”

“You do?” Hermione gave him a teasing nudge when he looked at her.

He smiled. “These days I do. I get plenty of it at work, I’d like to be boring at home.”

“Fair. If Ginny’s not coming, does that mean you can finally tell me the secret you two have been sitting on?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Can I finally talk to Ron about you and Sirius?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Mmm… no.”

“Then no.” His smirk said he wasn’t genuinely angry, though. Only torturing her a bit. She probably deserved it.

They were at Andromeda’s gate, now, and Harry went first to ring the bell.

Andromeda pulled the door open almost immediately. She took the sight of them in, heaved a sigh, and mouthed “ _help me_ ” before turning back to her living room with a hostess smile. “Harry, Hermione, let me take your coats. I think you’re already… familiar?”

“You could say that,” said Harry, dryly. He and Draco had locked eyes.

Draco was sitting stiffly on Andromeda’s turquoise couch, holding a glass of wine. He was wearing a black suit, platinum hair combed back, pristine as always. His pale eyes were wary, but he nodded at Harry and Hermione. “Potter. Granger.”

Hermione nodded back, grinning a bit in spite of herself. “Malfoy.” He looked outrageously uncomfortable. But the fact that his voice hadn’t dripped with disdain was… surprising. Promising, even.

His mother got up from the chair beside him to shake their hands. She was wearing a pale blue dress, and her blond hair had silvered at the temples since Hermione had last seen her. She looked tired, and older, but less… cold. She tried saying their first names as she greeted them, in a tentative sort of way, not quite meeting their eyes. She looked at Andromeda afterwards, as if for approval. Andromeda only raised an eyebrow, and Narcissa sat back down and picked her wine glass up again.

It was clear which sister had the power in the room. That was interesting.

A knock on the door sounded then, and Hermione opened it to a scarf-swathed Sirius. He took in the scene for a moment, and then reached into his cloak for something. “Right. Let’s get this party started, shall we?” He held up a bottle. “I brought firewhiskey.”

Andromeda put her head in her hands, but Hermione was fairly certain she was laughing. Either that, or hysteria had claimed its first victim of the night. It might very well not be the last.

Draco had leaned forward on the couch, face lighting with the trademark Malfoy smirk. “Firewhiskey? This should be fun.”

–

“So, Malfoy,” said Harry. They had at this point made it through dinner more or less unscathed, with liberal applications of Sirius’s firewhiskey, and everybody had moved on to dessert. “What have you been doing, since Hogwarts? For money, I mean.” He blinked. “If you… need it.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. Hermione kept being reminded, in little gestures, that he and Sirius were cousins. It was odd. “We’ve joined other mortals a bit since the war, Potter. Yes, I’m working. At,” he hesitated, and studied his fork as he said it, “Borgin and Burke’s, actually. I’ve always had a fondness for…” he set the fork down. “…things. And in any case, it gives me –someone with something resembling a brain – a chance to pass off to the Ministry some of the things that the more... moronic… elements of the population really shouldn’t get their hands on. Of course,” the corner of his mouth curved, “it is Arthur Weasley I’ve been having to pass most of them off to, but no system is perfect.”

Hermione was inclined to let the jab slide, given that Malfoy had mostly just implied that he had stationed himself in the wizarding black market as a Ministry mole. She even granted him a small smile.

“Why does Borgin and Burke’s sound familiar?” asked Sirius.

Harry looked at him. “Because it’s where the Vanishing cabinet was from. The one that the Death Eaters came through the night–” and then he realized what he was saying and stopped, looking around the table with a stricken expression. Draco wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes.

Sirius picked up the firewhiskey bottle, and poured more for Draco and Harry. And then, consideringly, for himself. Hermione grabbed the bottle after him. “Boys,” said Sirius, “We’re here to talk it out. Because Dromeda wants that, apparently. So don’t feel bad, Harry. And Draco, you did the right thing in the end. So stop looking all… pointy and sad. Anyway, I of all people know what it’s like to be chained to a rotten family you can’t choose.” He paused. “No offense, Dromeda. Narcissa. But, anyway. You didn’t choose the family, Draco, and you made it out.”

Draco was looking at Sirius with a bitter sort of smile, and he raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that. The family I didn’t choose–may he rot in Azkaban, and good riddance.”

At the word _Azkaban_ , a little shiver ran through Hermione, and the image returned to her again of Sirius grasping bars, screaming – Sirius, holding her tight, tears dripping down his cheeks… She shook her head, as if to clear it. The real Sirius, sitting next to her, was looking at her a bit questioningly. She shook her head at him more deliberately. It was nothing.

Narcissa was looking at her son, her eyes glittering. “Lucius was always too hard on Draco. And arrogant, always so arrogant. As if nothing applied to him, nothing could bring him down.” Her hands were clasped in front of her, knuckles white.

Andromeda had her chin in her hand. “Does that mean you’re done with him, Ciss? Thinking of coming over into the light, even?”

Narcissa looked at her sister. “Haven’t I been brought down already? I’ve nothing to offer. It’s not my choice, it’s if the light would even have me.”

Andromeda rested her hand on the blond woman’s arm. “I can’t speak for other people. But I’ll have you, Ciss. I’m not in the habit of letting family… go to waste, these days.” She bit her lip, and stood up. “Just a second.” She bustled from the room, and returned more slowly with a sleepy brown-haired toddler in her arms. Andromeda’s voice was a bit rough as she looked at Narcissa and said, “I’d–I’d like you to meet my grandson, Ciss. This is Teddy.”

Narcissa’s eyes had widened, and she held out her arms, a smile breaking across her face. Andromeda handed over the boy, and Narcissa kissed him on the forehead. “Hello, Teddy. I’m Narcissa. I’m your… aunt.” Then, quite suddenly, she was weeping, and she hugged the little boy, trying to wipe the tears from her face.

Draco put his head in his hands, muttering, “Mother, please.”

“I’ve been trying,” choked Narcissa, “to tell my son, that the only thing that m-mattered at the end of it all,” she ran a shaking hand over Teddy’s silky hair, “w-was this.” And she kissed the little boy on the top of the head again, reverently.

Harry had pulled off his glasses, and he wiped them with a napkin, looking suspiciously misty-eyed himself. “You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said. “It’s how I got my scar. It’s how I defeated Voldemort the first time, and the last. And if it weren’t for your love for Draco we might all be dead. I’ve been meaning, actually, to thank you again for that.” He put the glasses back on, and looked at her. “Would you and Draco like to come to the holiday party I’m throwing? I never had any kind of… memorial event, after the war. The party is a celebration, of course, but being happy these days is also about surviving. And you two sure survived as much as the rest of us. Also,” he grinned, a bit crookedly, “can’t you imagine Voldemort rolling in his grave, to see you there?”

Narcissa inclined her head, smiling tentatively. Draco, looking bemused, nodded as well. “Cheers,” he said, “to unity in almost getting murdered, then. You’ve got your holiday spirit on lock, Potter.”

“Well, you know, Malfoy,” said Harry, “maybe you shouldn’t look a spirit gift horse in the mouth. You look like you could use spirit of just about any kind.”

Draco smirked, and wiggled his fingers for the firewhiskey bottle, which Sirius handed him again. “Touché. It’s this cloak of cold dignity I wear, it’s just so hard to express anything through it…” He took a gulp, and set the glass back down. “I will say, though, now that we’ve gotten rid of my father and not just Bellatrix–I feel like I can _breathe_. Imagine that.”

Hermione tilted her head. She wasn’t surprised, necessarily, but interested. “Were you scared of Bellatrix?”

Draco raised his eyebrows at her. “Of course. I’d be mental not to be, she was a raging psychopath. I don’t know how long you held out so long that… time, Granger. At the manor.” He blinked, and frowned. “I’m sorry about that. Genuinely.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Hermione quietly. “You tried as much as you could, under the circumstances.”

Draco shrugged. “Maybe. I thought I did at the time.”

Sirius’s hand had found Hermione’s arm beneath the edge of the table, tightening as he realized what they were talking about, and so he probably noticed when Hermione flinched.

She was being bombarded again, with images and feelings. She was being pinned to a floor, and she could feel Bellatrix’s low laughter against her chest. The blade of the knife was at her throat, and she was cold with fear. But just as quickly, it was Sirius’s weight pressing on her, his teeth the sharpness at her neck, and the fear melted quicksilver into desire, her heart pounding no less fast. And then back, she was in a dungeon, distraught and – then back, in her room, warm and woozy, and –

She reached unsteady hands for her glass, hoping that no one would notice anything was wrong. No one other than Sirius, at least. He was rubbing a hand along her leg comfortingly, probably attributing her reaction to the discussion of Bellatrix. Hopefully these–she winced, tried to concentrate–feelings would fade again soon.

“So, Draco,” Sirius was saying. “What’s your patronus?”

Draco looked at Harry, and back at Sirius. “Suspiciously apropos of nothing, Black. Why do you ask?”

“Friendly curiosity.” Sirius grinned, to show how friendly it was. “I’ve been interested recently in whether they run in families.”

Draco still looked wary. “It’s a marten. An albino one, as much as it’s possible to tell with a patronus.”

“Mmmm.” Sirius’s smile had widened. “Aren’t those rather closely related to otters? And ferrets?”

Draco only raised an icy eyebrow.

Hermione, happily, was recovered enough now to scoff. “Shut up. Otters and martens are both noble predators and should in no way be compared to _ferrets_. For one thing, they’re not subjected to the indignity of being kept as _house pets_.”

Draco smiled slightly, looking from Sirius to her. “Careful, Granger, or I might start to think you actually like me.”

Hermione only smirked. “Don’t worry, Malfoy. We’ve got quite a ways to go before you need to worry about _that_.” She reached over under the table to twine her fingers with Sirius’s, and he settled back a bit into his chair.

…

Hermione was wondering if she’d slightly overdone it on the firewhiskey, by the time they got home and tottered up the steps, all three more or less arm in arm. Harry went straight up to bed. Hermione let Sirius help untangle her from her coat, less because she needed it and more because she was in a warm glow and liked the way his hands lingered.

He hooked her coat on the rack, and turned her around to face him, not quite letting go of her hips. “That went surprisingly well. What’d you think of the Malfoy boy? Less of a toe-rag than I was expecting.”

“I was surprised by how much I liked him. It’s the nicest he’s ever been.” Hermione took in Sirius’s face, and leaned in, smiling up at him. “Is this fishing? Are you jealous?”

Sirius narrowed his eyes, the corner of his mouth curving. “No. Should I be?”

“Silly man.” Hermione stood on her toes to reach his mouth, and his hands came around her waist. Then a new wave of the Veil sensations hit her like a runaway train, and what had started as a sweet kiss turned into her practically winding herself up onto Sirius, biting at his lip in blind need. When he pulled back, her heart was pounding and his eyes were dark.

A small cough sounded behind them. Ginny was leaning against the wall by the kitchen door. “Are you two planning to get a room, or should I get some popcorn going?” Her expression made the offer sound plausibly serious.

“No need for popcorn tonight, Ginny.” Sirius pushed Hermione encouragingly towards the stairs. “We just haven’t practiced our choreography enough, and you know what a perfectionist Hermione is…”

Normally, Hermione would have fired back. Now, she simply apparated up to their landing. It was as if whatever feelings had been surging all today had suddenly broken over some kind of dam. Her mind was flooded. Her whole body thrummed with a fierce, fearful energy.

Beyond patience or thought, she pulled off her shirt. She opened her bedroom door and threw it to the floor. Her bra followed, but then she could hear Sirius’s steps approaching and a new instinct reigned. She turned, waiting.

When he stepped onto the landing, his mouth fell open slightly, and his eyebrow rose as he took in the sight of her. She stepped forward, and then he was close enough to grab by the collar. He met her with enthusiasm, running his hands down her back and murmuring, “Someone’s in a mood,” before their mouths locked.

This was good, but it wasn’t enough. There was a force in her, a force that _wanted_. Hermione drew back for air. “Sirius, can you–”

He was walking her back towards the wall. “Can I what, love?”

She looked up into his eyes, grey and very close. “Can you be… rougher with me than usual?”

He looked at her for a moment, and ran his fingers along her jaw, trailing his thumb over her lips. His mouth curved. “Your wish is my command, kitten. Let’s go in, and make sure Ginny doesn’t get her show.”

They went into Hermione’s room, and Sirius sealed the door with a silencing spell. Then he turned to face Hermione. She was hovering, a fluttering sort of nervousness settling in her stomach as he began to walk towards her. Stalking speed. He was sizing her up, a smile hovering about his mouth. She turned with him, following his gaze, hypnotized. Those roiling feelings were waiting, wondering if this was what she wanted.

He stepped around her, and slid his hands savoringly around her waist. His breath was warm against her ear. “You know the rules, kitten. Tell me specifically if you want me to stop.” Then he pulled her about, and she was pressed against the wall as his mouth clamped on hers. A few searing kisses in, and his grip on her waist tightened as he lifted her, pinning her against the wall, grinding into her. His teeth were against her neck, but Hermione was impatient. She fisted her hands in his hair and yanked. When his head came up with a growl, she leaned in and quite deliberately bit his lip. 

“Alright. Message received.” There was heat in his look as he set her down. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her towards the desk. She yipped–it hurt, but it thrilled. Then he had her against the desk, and he bent her face-forward onto it. “Grip the far edge.” She did, goosebumps rising on her skin. He pushed her skirt up to her waist, and she could hear him unzipping his pants. He slid her knickers down a few inches, and, as quick as that, forced himself into her, making her gasp. He gave a low chuckle, then, and his hand found her hair again, holding her head down to the desk. “You’re practically dripping, love.” Then he was moving, prompting helpless little moans from Hermione as he built up to a fierce rhythm. She tried to hold onto the desk, hands clenching each time he slammed into her. She felt skewered by white heat.

And then he stopped, and Hermione, chest heaving, practically wailed. He pulled her up, and crushed his mouth to hers for a moment, his own face almost wild. “Take this off, I want to see all of you.” He was tugging at her skirt.

She got it off as fast as she could, kicking it away with her knickers. He had torn off his shirt in the meantime–it was soaked with sweat–and now he almost threw her onto the bed. “On all fours.” His voice was hoarse. She obeyed as he was pulling off his pants, and then he was behind her, and inside her, and they were moving again. Sirius’s new rhythm was savage. His fingers were digging into the softness at her hips, hard enough to bruise, and Hermione was lost to a brutal kind of bliss. At a certain point he leaned down, chest against her back, and his larger hand pressed beside hers on the mattress as he moved above and inside her. His mouth had found the spot where her neck met her shoulder, now kissing, now biting as their frenzy mounted.

When Hermione broke over the edge, she bucked blindly against him and he groaned, holding her close with a hand against her stomach. Then she held herself up on trembling arms for the moments it took him to make the final, aching motions, let out a rough gasp, and fill her with heat.

When he rolled over to collapse beside her, he looked almost dazed. She shifted herself close enough to plant a sweaty kiss on his collarbone. He smiled. “You’re going to wear me out, woman.” His eyelids were drooping.

Hermione wasn’t sure what to say to that. She didn’t have any apologies, at any rate. “Won’t it be a pleasant way to go, at least?” She looked up.

She had apparently thought about her answer for too long. Sirius seemed to have already fallen asleep. And not long after, tucked in against his side and grinning to herself, so did she.

–

_The amphitheater was dark._

_That was what made it hard to see the figures standing in the archway_.

_Was Hermione in the archway again? She couldn’t tell._

_The woman with the curly brown hair turned._

_“Hermione,” said Phoebe Granger, “Please–”_

_“Please,” said Mark, “I’ve missed you, owlet. It’s so dark here. Where are we?”_

_Bright lights, blinding them. White walls, featureless._

_“We’re in the hospital, dad.”_

_Hermione was alone._

_She spun around, and her throat would make no noise._

_Down the hall, a brown-haired girl walked hand in hand with her parents, their backs to Hermione._

_As if at an unspoken signal, they all turned. Now they were coming closer. And it was all wrong. Hermione tried to move, try to speak._

_She was useless._

–

Hermione woke up in a cold sweat, and to an aching, stuffy head. She was shaking, and it took her a moment to realize that the anguish of her dream had made it to her body; she’d been crying in her sleep. The events of the dream were fading already. But now she couldn’t shake this terrible feeling, this certainty– she muffled a sob into her pillow, trying to choke it back.

It was too late. Sirius was shifting beside her, and his arm came around, looking to pull her against him. She let him, but it didn’t seem to help. “Hermione? What’s wrong?” He found her face, pressed a sleepy kiss to her temple, her nose. His fingers brushed tears from her cheek. “Sweetheart? Talk to me.” His tone was much gentler than she was used to. And apparently waking him up in the middle of the night was the way to unlock endearments that didn’t involve “little” or variations on “cat.”

She hid her face in his shoulder, wanting to control herself. “Was just a nightmare.”

He had wrapped his arms around her, and could no doubt feel the shaking. There were sobs still trying to force their way up through her chest. “Feels like a hell of one. Want to tell me about it?”

She tried to reason with herself. This was a very safe spot, here. Nestled under Sirius’s chin, feeling his voice rumble through his chest. Her breathing was returning to something like normal, anyway, even if her emotions still churned. “It’s–hard to explain. More a feeling than something happening.”

“Mmm. You don’t _have_ to tell me about it. Only if you think it’ll help.” He was scrunching his hand through her hair, soothingly slow. He had figured out long since that that was one of her weaknesses.

She took a breath. “It… can’t hurt. It’s–I think it’s because of earlier. How I felt,” she cast about for the words, “What I–did.”

His hand had stopped. “Was it–too much for you? How we were tonight? The last thing I want–”

She shook her head, and put a hand up to his face to cut off his growing concern. “Shh, Sirius, you big oaf. I didn’t mind at all.” She kissed his collarbone for emphasis. She couldn’t see his face, tucked down here, but he relaxed a bit. “The opposite, actually. _That’s_ what the problem is. I was so–there was this thing with the Veil, and now it’s gone, but I’m _still_ …” She paused. Her stomach was lurching, a great much of the dream coming to rest in quite an unpleasant way. Her head was on fire. She sat up, and the world swayed. She scrambled towards the edge of the bed. “Sorry, I’m going to be sick.”

She made it down the hallway and to the toilet before she threw up, and then there was no holding it back–acid, like purging herself of an evil bile. Sitting on the bathroom floor feeling like a wrung-out dishrag, though, Hermione thought her head was clearer now. That physical sense of doom was gone, anyhow. She really _had_ overdone it on the firewhiskey.

She made it back to the bedroom to find a worried Sirius sitting with the lamp on.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, and perched on the edge of the bed.

“Don’t apologize.” He held up an arm, offering her a spot to curl against him.

“I just collapsed on the bathroom floor and coughed up my guts, I don’t think you want me cozying up to you.”

A wry smile, and the arm didn’t move. “I think I’ll survive, love.” Love. He’d been saying that, recently. She wasn’t sure exactly when it had started. Or if he knew, exactly, that he was doing it. She knew she was stupidly smiling, as she crawled across the bed to him. Feeling weak, and pale, and thoroughly unworthy of being cuddled. “And anyway,” he added, as his arm settled around her, “if it’s contagious, I’ve already caught it.”

“I don’t think it is. It was probably the firewhiskey. Either that, or,” it was occurring to her as she spoke, “a side effect from work leaving my system. What I was trying to say before was… hm. I’m not allowed to say much, but there was something that happened with the Veil that left me feeling really weird all day. Like magical aftershocks. And I think that’s why I was so, um, aggressive with you.”

An amused huff from Sirius. “You, my love, were not the aggressive one.” There it was again–love. This was going to go very much to her head if he didn’t stop soon.

“Anyway,” she continued, her face flushing, “what I think happened in the dream was that I realized that it wasn’t the Veil that caused that. It–it sort of unlocked it, but I think the effect had worn off enough by then that I knew I had genuinely meant those feelings. Me, not the Veil’s influence. Do you know how things sometimes slide together in dreams, in a way that you wouldn’t think of awake?”

“The type of sliding together where you realize things about yourself? I’ve been _there_ for sure.” A certain appreciation in his tone. “I don’t think I’ve had one that was scary, though.”

“Well. Realizing… that… about myself wasn’t the scary part. It was the thought that this is the genuine me now, but it hasn’t been the genuine me before. I’ve been changing. In lots of ways. The war, work.” A smaller voice. “You. The thing is,” and she held to her calm with an iron grip–no more blubbering–“Sirius, I rebuilt my parents from me _right now_. But the–the people they really are only ever knew the old me. I can’t have truly gotten them back, because my source material is corrupted. I’ve changed them. It’s–it’s not really them.” And the way those not-parents had looked at her in the dream–like automatons, blank-eyed parodies of who they should be.

Sirius was silent for a few moments. “First of all, you don’t know that for sure yet. They’re still in St. Mungo’s, right?”

“They’re getting out tomorrow. I found out after work.” She’d been so happy, earlier, at the thought.

“Good. So don’t go borrowing trouble until you’ve actually seen them. That’s the official advice. And second, since I know your brain doesn’t work that way and you’ll keep worrying yourself sick–” He caught her rueful smile and tugged a lock of her hair, gently. “–maybe consider this. Everybody changes. Your real parents, if they hadn’t been interrupted, probably wouldn’t be the same people now that they were before the war. Hell, I feel like I change every few days, much less every few years. I’ve gone from student, to soldier, to lunatic alleged murderer, to semi-alcoholic shut-in, to… maybe a little bit happy. My personality’s changed a whole lot, gotten darker. And quieter. Should I worry about not recognizing myself? Am I any less me?”

Hermione looked up at him. The mussed black hair, the haughty arch to the eyebrows. The laugh lines by the warm grey eyes. “You’re exhaustingly you,” she admitted.

He kissed her on the forehead. “You see my point?”

“That they might still be my real parents, even if they’re different?”

“Exactly.”

“I… see what you mean about you. Or about me. But I’m not sure about them. I _made_ them. How do I _tell_ if they’re real?”

Sirius looked at her for a moment. “I don’t think I can answer that. Think about what makes them themselves, maybe. Are you seeing them on your own tomorrow?”

Too soon already. “Yes. Moving them back into their flat.”

“You sure you don’t want… Ginny, or someone, to come with you?”

“Why?”

He frowned, and put his hand in her hair again. “I just… don’t like the thought of you there all alone, if it goes badly. Moral support, you know?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Hermione thought about it. “I don’t think I’m ready for Ginny, or whoever, to see them, is the thing. If it goes wrong.”

Sirius was silent, stroking her hair. Then– “Would you want me to come? Since I already know about it?”

It was the fact that he used his casual tone that really made Hermione’s ears prick up. The tone he used as a cover when he felt awkward about _meaning_ things. Her mind picked over what there was to mean in this–caring about her; understanding her fears. Merlin, meeting her parents. Sirius was offering to _meet her parents_ if it might save her from some excess angst.

She could have kissed him. And so, throwing caution to the wind, she did just that. On the cheek–she had just thrown up down the hall, after all, and toothpaste didn’t cure all sins. “That,” she told him, “might help a lot. I mean, it’ll be transcendently awkward. But… it’ll mean a lot. For my peace of mind.”

“Alright.” He was smiling a half-smile, looking at their twined hands now rather than at her. “Don’t get all mushy on me, witch. Transcendent awkwardness is what I live for. Anyway. Are you feeling any better?” He wrapped his arm further around her. “Or should we keep this slumber party going? You feel less cold.”

Hermione settled her head in against his shoulder. “I am less cold. We can turn the light off again. I can’t promise to move off of you, though. This is very comfortable.”

“I can live with that.” Sirius turned the light off. “I have the advantage, see, of being able to move _you_ off of _me_.” He hooked an arm under her knees, while she squeaked in protest, and scooched them both lower into the bed.

When they had settled, Hermione rubbed her nose against his chest. “I’m not entirely off of you.”

“That’s intentional.”  
Hermione waited a few moments. “Alright. As long as you’re aware.”

“Shut up. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

She grinned, and waited a few moments again. “I’d hate to cut in on your beauty sleep.”

“You know, I could pretty easily kill you with one of these pillows. You’re very small.”

“You wouldn’t. You like me too much.”

He sighed. “True.”

She settled more comfortably. “I’ll stop, though. Goodnight, Sirius.”

“Night, love.”

Dammit. There it was _again_. And with its arrival, any hope Hermione had of falling right back to sleep faded. Not long after, Sirius began to snore.

She was in so deep, she couldn’t even work up annoyance. Merlin, she cared about this idiot man. Might even, if she consulted the recesses of her mind, have been quietly saying “love” in there for a while too.

She hoped Sirius knew what he was getting himself into. At least one of them should hold on to some way of thinking clearly, and it was looking less and less like it was going to be her.

That was almost a refreshing thought.


	19. Suspicions and Sniffles

Chapter Nineteen

The waiting room at St. Mungo’s was not a reassuring place to wait.

“What,” whispered Sirius, “do you think _that_ one has? Two to the left, with the… trumpet things.”

They had been sitting here for two hours, waiting for access to Hermione’s parents, and they had at this point devolved into a game of guess-the-malady. Stakes of the game were limited, as they didn’t have much of a way to check their conclusions, though Hermione had dug a textbook out of her Extended purse when they’d had a particularly fierce whispered debate over whether one witch’s feathers looked transfiguration-based or potion-based.

“I’m going magical accident,” said Hermione under her breath. “I think they started as real trumpets. Or trombones, maybe.”

“Coming out of his ears?” said Sirius doubtfully. “I think I’m in camp charms on this one. Or jinxes, the more I look at it.”

“You’re on. Let’s pay attention this time when they send him to a ward, we missed the last one.”

“Well, sure, that’s because you distracted me, you were busy digging around in your purse over the ostrich lady-”

“Ostrich? Come on. Goose. _Maybe_ pheasant.”

Sirius leveled a finger at her. “Live a little. Those were goddamn ostrich feathers. Peacock if you push me.”

“Sirius, they were brown.”

“Peahen, then.”

“ _Granger? Paging Miss Hermione Granger_.”

Hermione shot to her feet, all traces of mirth forgotten. “They must be ready.”

Sirius took her hand, and pressed it briefly to his lips. “You’ve got this, love. Let me know when they’re ready and I’ll bring along the bag.”

She leaned in to kiss him on the forehead. “Thank you. Love you.” And before he could respond to _that_ , she was hurrying off to the desk and the waiting mediwitch. Really, it had just slipped out before she knew what she was saying. Oh, Christ.

The mediwitch led her down a winding set of halls, as pristinely white as always. It reminded Hermione all too much of that dream, and she tried to shove the thought away. And then to concentrate on what Sirius had said, that night. Who might her parents be _now_?

Then they arrived at a small glass-paneled door, and the mediwitch ushered Hermione into the small room where her parents had been recovering. It was one of those hospital rooms that seemed almost too domestic—it had a view out over London, currently foggy, from its large window, and cheerful pastel curtains that matched the bedsheets. The hospital gowns her parents wore were also cheerful. Their expressions less so.

They each hugged her readily enough, and Hermione looked back and forth between their faces. “Mum? Dad? How are you?”

“Feeling much better, sweetheart, physically. The headaches are all gone now, they say we should be good to go.” Her father offered a wan smile.

“That’s—good. Why do you look upset, then? Mum?”

Her mother wasn’t meeting her eyes, and when she finally looked up, her expression was tight. “Adjusting, dear, is all. It’s rather a lot, to come back and find that the medical practice I spent a life building is gone overnight. And that I wasn’t consulted about giving it up.”

Well. That hit Hermione like a kick to the stomach. “I—Mum, I did it to save your life. People _died_. Ron’s—Ron’s brother died. Other friends, too. Friends that were like family. You would have been targets, I couldn’t just-” There were tears in her eyes, but her mother stood up and took her by the arms.

Phoebe’s face was pale, her brown eyes dark. “I know, darling, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to blame you. You did what seemed best at the time, I understand. It’s just—hard.”

Mark was nodding. He cleared his throat. “Everyone will have moved on without us, you see. Our practice, our friends. Who could know how to grapple with that?”

Hermione blinked. “You’d be… surprised. I actually have a—a friend who can commiserate, he came today to help me with your things. I think you met him with Harry, some summer during Hogwarts… Anyway, he was trapped outside time for a while and recently came back to his life, too.”

“Outside _time_?”

“Yes. Or, uh, suspended. I’m not allowed to say more than that. But it’s a comparable feeling.”

Mark was trying to smile. “Good lord, are you collecting us?”

“Not on purpose. Sirius coming back might have been my fault too, though, in a roundabout way. I didn’t send him away in the first place, of course, so he can’t quite sympathize with you on that…” She knew she was babbling now, so she headed for the door to send Sirius the promised memo. This seemed like the moment for backup. “He’s bringing some of your old clothes, I thought you might be more comfortable in those.”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” said Phoebe. “I don’t _know_ what that person you made me into was thinking.” But then she was looking at Hermione, frowning a frown that Hermione knew all too well. It was the I’m-going-to-pretend-confusion-until-you- _spill_ frown. “You’d think I’d remember a name like ‘Sirius.’ Are you sure we met this boy?”

Hermione was sure she cringed. “Oh, Mum. He’s not-” She didn’t know where she was heading with this one other than disaster, so she was grateful when a knock on the door interrupted her.

She opened it to find Sirius, promised rucksack in tow. “Were you waiting right here in the hallway?”

He blinked at her, deadpan. “I might have been.” His hair was about as tidy as it could ever be persuaded to be, pushed behind his ears, and he was wearing his plaid shirt, which they had agreed again seemed the least alarming of his options. Hermione was going to take him shopping for something very boring before the next time he saw her parents. She wished she’d thought of it sooner. Anyway, nothing to be done about it now.

Hoping she didn’t look too frightened, she opened the door all the way. “Mum, Dad, meet—or, uh, maybe re-meet—Sirius.”

Sirius stepped right forward to shake both of their hands. “Dr. Granger, and,” he offered a charming smile, “Dr. Granger. Sirius Black. Pleased to meet you.” Ooh. That was good. She hadn’t warned him not to call her mother “Mrs. Granger,” this might earn him points. Looking at her mother, though—had it been _too_ good? Phoebe Granger was looking Sirius over as she might a muddy dog that had just wandered in onto her cream-colored carpet.

Mark Granger was looking at him as he might a wolf that had done so.

Sirius lowered the rucksack, with the air of a man completely unfazed. Hermione wondered if he could hear her heart pounding from where he was standing. “I was dispatched,” he said, with a deferential little nod at Hermione, “to bring you these, so you’ll have something to go home in. I don’t want to intrude, though, so I’ll see you—” he cast half a glance at Hermione “—back at your flat, with more of your things. Hermione has them in storage.”

“How very kind of you to help us out,” said Phoebe, at this point regaining some of her gracious self. She might be able to feel that her pearl necklace was in the rucksack, Hermione thought sourly.

“Yes,” managed Mark. “Thanks very much. Good to meet you.”

Sirius ducked his head. The small smile he gave Hermione had an edge that she suspected only she could see. “No problem at all. See you soon.”

And then he was out the door, and Hermione’s parents were pinning her with looks like police searchlights. She unclenched her hands from the knot she’d made of her sweater hem, and tried a smile. “Uh, I should probably take this moment to say that Sirius and I are dating. I know it’s a lot to spring on you on top of… everything… but he came because he knew how nervous I was about,” she was losing momentum, taking in their expressions, “all of this.”

“Why should you be nervous about seeing your own _parents_?” asked Phoebe, in a tone that somehow managed to imply that Sirius had planted this perfidious idea in Hermione’s mind.

Hermione had forgotten, a bit, what her mother could be like sometimes. “Mum,” she said, trying to sound very calm. “He’s just being supportive in a stressful time. You’d approve if you knew him properly.” Said with much more assurance than she felt.

And now her mother was doing the thing where she pretended not to hear her, just rummaging through the rucksack with a serene expression. Splendid. “Ah!” she exclaimed. “You brought my favorite earrings!”

“Sirius suggested those, actually,” said Hermione, feeling mutinous. “He thought they’d go with the blouse.”

Phoebe Granger just pursed her lips at this, and pulled out the rest of her clothes in silence. Mark hadn’t said a word, and Hermione wasn’t quite sure how to interpret the look on his face. He didn’t seem angry, exactly. Worried, maybe? That was almost insulting.

They all started off for the Tube, needless to say, in a fine cloud of tension. By the time they hit the platform, it was Hermione’s father that cracked. “This Sirius,” he said. “Who is he, again? How does Harry know him?”

Hermione supposed it would worry her parents if she were to walk over to the tile wall and begin smacking her head against it. “He’s Harry’s, um, honorary relative. He was really close with Harry’s parents when he was—very young.” All perfectly true, technically. She didn’t think the word “godfather” would go down well, at the moment.

“Mmm.” Mark mulled this over. Phoebe, though clearly listening to every word, was staring determinedly at the platform opposite them. “And what does he do for a living? I assume he works?”

“What? Of _course_ he works.” What was it? The long hair, or just her parents’ general confusion with the wizarding world? It was probably the long hair. “Though I don’t think he’d need to, financially…” That had been the wrong thing to say to her father, though her mother’s eyebrow had risen in a positive sort of way. “Anyway,” continued Hermione hastily, “he runs a business with Ron’s brother George. They sell… magical merchandise, including defense magic, and entertainment… things. It was a crossover from student-marketed products to more serious commissions and, um, research-oriented magic, these days.” If Sirius referred to it as a joke shop in her parents’ presence today, she was going to stamp on his foot, regardless of the consequences.

Her father seemed to need some time to digest this word salad, to figure out quite whether he approved or not. By the time they were sitting in an insufficiently air conditioned train car, rocketing along underneath the city, Phoebe’s curiosity seemed to have overcome her shroud of dignity. “What,” she asked Hermione, “is his family like? This man you’re seeing?” She seemed unable to bring herself to use the word “dating.”

Hermione opened her mouth, and then closed it. “They’re, um… mostly dead. Unfortunately. In the two wars, mostly the first one. Harry’s his main family, honestly. And his cousin Andromeda. I hope you’ll meet her soon, she’s… lovely.” Answering questions about Sirius in a non-alarming way was like hopping through a minefield.

Phoebe’s eyebrows had risen. “Oh, dear. How did they die?”

“I think his parents died naturally, though I’d have to check.” She winced at her mother’s expression. “His brother was… killed. And the other relatives who died were also war casualties. I think I told you about Tonks? She was Sirius’s cousin.”

“The woman who could change shape?” asked Mark. “With the pink hair? I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Hermione nodded. “Andromeda’s her mother. She’s raising Tonks’s son, Teddy. Professor Lupin and Tonks got married there, at the end, and Teddy’s their son. Remus was also Sirius’s best friend, so we see Teddy a lot.” Wasn’t seeing a toddler wholesome? Why had her parents looked at each other like that?

“A lot? How long have you two been—seeing each other?” Great. Now her father was avoiding the word too.

“We’ve been dating,” Hermione said, “for about six weeks, depending on how you count it.” She thought for a second. “Yes, about six. But, you know, we saw each other a lot before that. Just as friends.” She’d better stop talking now while she was ahead.

“I see,” seemed to be all her father could manage.

They reached the flat in a chilly silence. Hermione couldn’t parse, at this point, if her parents were actively upset or just overwhelmed. She was trying to be optimistic.

As the only one still possessed of the Wilkins’ keys, Hermione unlocked the door to the flat, and led her parents into their unfamiliar home. The thing that first struck the eye was—crystals. Lots of crystals. A crystal sort of chandelier, hanging like windchimes. Crystal prisms in the window, scattering rainbow lights across the carpet. Crystals on the dining room table, the kitchen counter. Like potted plants.

“Good lord,” muttered Mark.

Phoebe was quite simply speechless. She reached for Hermione’s arm, and sort of patted at it, and then made a swishing sort of gesture with her hand at all the crystals. Her eyes were wide with horror. Hermione got the message—do your magic, dear, and make them go away.

She raised her wand and set to work.

By the time a knock sounded on the front door of the flat, Hermione had hunted through the four rooms and successfully vanished all crystals, faceted rocks, and feathers for good measure. Mark had made a pot of tea, and was offering a cup to Phoebe. She was sitting at the counter with her head in her hands, having just looked inside the fridge.

Hermione went for the door before either of her parents could. This gave her a chance to make wide eyes at Sirius— _help, help, help_ —before her father caught up behind her.

“Ah, Mr. Bl-er, Sirius. Do come in. Thanks so much.” Mark held the door open, somehow managing to shunt Hermione back past his elbow. This made sure that Sirius was in no danger of accidentally touching her on his way through the door. Sirius was already looking amused.

“Not at all, Dr. Granger.” And he carried a surprisingly small camping bag past them and into the living room.

“Please,” said Hermione’s father, in the slightly strangled tone of a man mustering great valiance, “call me Mark.”

Hermione’s mother drifted over from the kitchen alcove to shake Sirius’s hand again. “Do call me Phoebe. I hope your—trip wasn’t too bad? Did you, er, fly?” She was eyeing the camping bag with some skepticism.

Sirius looked at Hermione with a glint in his eye, and she wondered for a horror-filled moment if he was going to mention his motorcycle, but he only shook his head. “I had Hermione show me your building earlier so I could apparate. Even in an Extended bag,” he touched it with the toe of his boot, “I wouldn’t want to risk your furniture by flying.”

“Our furniture?” Phoebe looked down at the bag as if it might explode.

Sirius was laying on his most charming smile again. “Absolutely.” He crouched to unzip the bag, and began levitating out pieces. An old lamp came first. “I brought things that Hermione mentioned as favorites, and some that seemed useful. We can make a trip back for more at some point, when you’ve had a chance to settle in.”

Phoebe had snatched up the lamp and was holding it lovingly. “Oh, _thank_ you. This was my grandmother’s. Oh, Mark, can you put _that_ thing,” she nodded at a modern chrome piece on the side table, “on a pile for donation? It’ll be a pain, but—or, um, Sirius.” Her eyes had lit on the wizard with something approaching friendliness. “Is there an—an easy magical way to deal with the things we don’t want?” She could have asked Hermione. This was probably her was of at least trying to give Sirius a chance.

Sirius grinned at her. “Just point me at them.”

And so Hermione and her father were left to organize the furniture that came out of the bag, while Phoebe led Sirius on a parade around the flat, pointing him at each offending piece with the grandeur of an admiral. He would raise his wand, the object would shrink, and he would pop it into the increasingly full box under his arm. Hermione and Mark didn’t put too much effort into their end of all this activity. They knew Phoebe would come back and redo it all later.

When all of the furniture had been something like arranged, Sirius produced a surprise from the depths of the camping bag. “I also found these while I was at the storage unit—I thought they might really help with picking back up. You know, where you left off.” He offered a stack of photo albums. “They don’t move, of course, which seems kind of rubbish. But still.”

Hermione’s parents were on the albums before he could finish speaking, and Phoebe grabbed Hermione’s arm to pull her over to the couch with them. There, they seemed to decide that identifying what was in each album required flipping through the majority of it, starting with the ones where Hermione was a baby. Hermione sat back between her parents, and when the fifteenth gap-toothed Christmas morning photo of a tiny Hermione became too much for her, she shot Sirius a mournful look.

He was leaning against the mantelpiece across the room, smirking at the spectacle. He gave Hermione a thumbs up. She stuck her tongue out at him, and then quickly stuck it back in because she was worried her father had noticed. Still, Sirius had a point. This was going relatively well. Better than before, at least.

Though her parents had managed to pretty well exclude Sirius from what was going on now. As soon as they hit the year where she turned eleven, Hermione waved Sirius over. “Come see pre-Sorted Hermione.”

He came and stood behind the couch, so that he could lean over them and look. “Wow. You had teeth.”

“I had them _fixed_.” Hermione imagined the look on her face was very similar to her mother’s. Her dentist parents took a certain amount of pride in teeth.

Sirius only smiled, and kept further commentary to himself. He was delighted, though, when they reached a photo of Harry, Ron, and Hermione together on the platform in front of the Hogwarts Express. They looked about twelve or thirteen. “Are those the Dursleys there, trying to hide behind the pillar?”

Hermione looked closer. “I think you’re right. They would never talk to my parents.”

“Unsurprising. Merlin, look at the three of you. Harry looks _just_ like-” and at Hermione’s widened eyes, he apparently rerouted, “-like I remember feeling at that age. The magic wears off by the time you hit about fourth year.” Hermione was fairly convinced that he had been about to say that Harry looked like James. Sirius had gotten her frantic telepathy, but he was pinning her now with a bit of an unreadable look.

“That’s right,” said Phoebe. “You’re very close with Harry, aren’t you? Why aren’t you turning up in any of these photos?”

Sirius barked a laugh. “You’re forgetting, these would have been when I was still in-” And when Hermione looked at him in panic again, his mouth flattened. He tilted his head, with a stubborn sort of look that Hermione knew. Oh dear. “Um, Hermione. Did you, by any chance, when you were telling your parents about me earlier, happen to leave out the part where I was in prison for over a decade? Possibly?”

The silence was deafening. “I might have,” said Hermione, after a moment. “Now that you mention it. It, um, hadn’t quite had the chance to come up.” She wasn’t looking at either of her parents. She didn’t need to.

“Ah, yes. Well.” Sirius looked from her mother to her father, and back again. “Let me just start by saying that I was _falsely_ accused of murder…”

—

Hermione wasn’t sure, afterwards, how Sirius managed to get through the entire saga of Pettigrew and Azkaban without mentioning that he was Harry’s godfather. He did rather let the cat out of the bag that he was as old as Harry’s parents, but Hermione was trying just to tally the positives at this point.

“So how did he die in the end? Pettigrew?” asked Mark. He was looking a little bit green, and had sandwiched Hermione ever closer to her mother the longer the conversation went on.

“Oh, murdered,” said Sirius. “By Voldemort, according to Harry. Not by me, of course. I’ve actually never killed anyone, after all that.” And he shrugged as if to say, such was life.

Phoebe extracted her arm out from between herself and Hermione, apparently in order to look dramatically at her watch. “Oh, my. Can I offer anybody some tea? Hermione? Sirius? The afternoon has been just getting away from us.”

Sirius was smiling a smile with an edge, and he looked at Hermione for a moment. Then he apparently made the assessment that his presence was at this point causing significantly more tension than comfort, for he stood up from the ottoman and announced, “I should really get back. I didn’t realize how late it was. Thank you, though. And great to meet you both.”

Hermione squeezed out from between her parents. “I’ll walk you out.”

Mark jumped to his feet. “Great to meet you too, Sirius. Phoebe, I’ll get on that tea, dear.” And he bustled to the kitchen alcove right on Hermione and Sirius’s heels.

This had the not so subtle advantage of giving him a perfect view of the entryway as Hermione let Sirius out, so she settled for hugging the wizard. “Thanks for coming. I’ll be fine now, I think.”

He was hugging her like she was made of glass, one eye on the kitchen, but the corner of his mouth was curved. “I think so too. See you at home.”

“See you at home.”

Hermione lingered in the doorway to watch him disappear down the hall. Her reluctance to face what was waiting for her proved all too justified when she turned back to find her father not two feet away, looking stricken.

She tried to evade, hurrying past him into the living room and snatching up one of the photo albums again.

He followed, and gripped her mother’s shoulder as if he was about to convey deathly news. “Hermione, did I hear that properly? Are you living with that man?”

Hermione bit her lip, and looked at her mother. No help there. “Yes, I am,” she admitted. “But we’re also living with Harry and Ginny. And Ron was living with all of us before, it’s a little bit… complicated. It’s a big house, Dad. I have my own room…” He was looking around the flat in a desperate sort of way, as if calculating whether Hermione could move in here with them.

“Speaking of Ron,” said Phoebe. Oh, Merlin. “How is Ron? You know, I always hoped you might end up dating _him_ , Hermione. I rather thought-”

“I _did_ date Ron, for a couple of years. And it did not go well. So we ended it, for the best.” Both of her parents were looking grave and confused, so she added, “And dating Sirius is going _very well_ , better than dating Ron ever did, because he’s better suited to me as a person if you’d only give him a chance.”

“That’s all very well, sweetheart,” said Mark, in a conciliatory tone, “but—do you want the same things? I’m just not sure I like you spending time with someone so… how old is the man, anyway? Forty?”

“Thirty- _five_ ,” spat Hermione. She had until January to reconcile them up to thirty-seven, after all, and thirty-five was a much rounder number to be tossing at her father.

“Thirty-five?” said Phoebe. “Still, that’s so very different from you, darling. And why hasn’t he married already? Does he ever want children? And for a man that age to only now be settling down in a business-”

“Did you miss the part,” hissed Hermione, “where he was behind bars and then on the run from the time he was _my_ age until just a few months ago? It’s amazing that he’s as settled and warm and kind as he is, and you should—should bloody well leave him alone, the last thing he needs is your _ignorant_ judgment.”

“Owlet,” said her father weakly, “we just want the best for you.”

“Yes,” said her mother, “and while I’m sure Sirius might be a nice man, you can’t have the experience, darling, to know—I mean, surely a good young man like Ron, at the same stage in life—you could grow _together-_ ”

“Sirius has made me grow more in the past two weeks than Ron did in two years,” said Hermione, and thumped the photo album onto the coffee table for emphasis. “And I’ve made him grow, too. I—I’m absolutely done with this, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

And she was striding for the door. She paused with it half-open to turn back to them. “I’m really glad you’re back. And I love you.” And then she nodded once, fiercely, and slammed the door on her way out.

…

Hermione was still fuming when she got home and tracked Sirius down to the library. He was sprawled on the couch, and he put down a book when she came in.

“I take it that didn’t go so well.”

Hermione crossed to the couch and pulled him up so that she could climb onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. This rather improved his expression. “They don’t like you,” she admitted. “But they’re bloody well going to come around, because _I_ like you.”

A half-smile. “That’s good. Given that I like you too.” And then Sirius’s nose was touching hers, and they found that they had to kiss each other for a bit to reassure themselves of this mutual liking.

Sirius apparently wasn’t done talking, though, for when Hermione pulled back with thoughts of moving upstairs, he just pulled her onto the couch next to him and put his arm around her. “How did it go with your parents themselves, though? Are you still worried like last night? That they’re not really them?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I honestly can’t tell. I was so—obedient, you know, when I was younger. I’ve never argued with them like this. But my real parents might conceivably react exactly like this to me… um…”

“Shacking up with a motorcycle-riding escaped convict twice your age?”

“Now that’s not fair.” She flicked at his arm. “You’re not quite twice my age. And we really have to hold off on my parents seeing the motorcycle.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard, seeing as you refuse to ride it with me.”

“The times I’ve been forced onto brooms and horses are quite enough for me. I don’t like riding things.”

This earned a slowly widening smirk.

“Oh, come on.” She shoved at his arm. “I didn’t mean-”

He was batting her hands away and moving in with an expression that she knew all too well. “Hm? What? Didn’t mean what?”

“Ach—Sirius—no-” And then they were tussling, and somehow found their way to the floor, Hermione mostly trying frantically to avoid being tickled. She wound up on top of Sirius, wand at his throat, and he set his hands behind his head in defeat. His cheeky grin was undimmed.

“You win, kitten. But you’re kind of proving my point.”

“As I was _going_ to say,” Hermione said, pressing herself a little more firmly against his hips for emphasis, “before I was so rudely interrupted, I only meant vehicles. I don’t like riding as a method of _transportation_. You clot. So. No motorcycles for me.”

“What if it isn’t _going_ anywhere? I’m feeling like there are deliberate loopholes here.” His hands had made their way to her thighs in a way that left her with little doubt as to what kind of loopholes he was imagining.

Hermione let out a huff of laughter, and leaned down close to him. “One track mind. But my goals here are comfort and not scaring my parents. This time around.”

He let his hands fall to the floor, and sighed. “Well, I don’t think we need to worry about the motorcycle, then, because that ship has kind of sailed. They seemed sort of terrified, didn’t they? I’m sorry for bringing up Azkaban. I just—when I realized how little they knew, I felt like we should start out with _some_ kind of honesty. I mean, don’t you want them reacting to the actual me? Why are—why are we hiding me?” He was looking off to the side, now, at the leg of the couch.

A wave of guilt flooded Hermione, as she heard the thought underneath the questions. He was worried she was ashamed to show him to her parents. She took his face in her hands, bringing his eyes back to hers. “Sirius, I wasn’t hiding you. Or—I was a little, but not _you_ you. I want my parents to see the person I know, and not to get caught first on details that they’ll judge. Not because there’s anything wrong with those details, but because my parents are judgmental, posh, middle-aged muggles with a stick up their-” He was starting to smile a bit again, so she leaned down to kiss him, hard. “I’m so sorry I mucked it up. I was just kind of desperate for them to like you, because—because I like you so desperately.” And now her damn voice was quavering, and Sirius sat up, and pulled her in to kiss her thoroughly.

“Hermione,” he said when they broke apart, amusement in his voice, “if you start tying yourself into stress knots over my feelings on top of everything else, I will start drugging your tea.”

She blinked up at him. “Does that mean it’s okay?”

“Yes, love. Merlin. Remind me never to get actually mad at you.”

She leaned her head on his chest. “It only gets to me when I feel like I deserve it.”

He had wrapped his arms around her, so she could feel the hint of a chuckle rumble through him. “Alright. I’ll only get angry when it’s completely irrational, that way we’ll both be fine. But you turning into a wilting flower is reminding me. Can I get you a present without you being awkward and excessively grateful or something? I’ve had it in mind for a few days.”

Hermione extracted her head to peer up at him. “What? Why?”

“A surprise. To cheer you up. So you’ll weep on me less often.” The jab was undermined by the fond way he was brushing the hair out of her face with a finger.

“I suppose so,” said Hermione, after a moment. “I can’t promise not to be grateful. But I can try and make it pleasant gratefulness.”

“I can work with that.” He urged her up and got to his feet. “Come on, then, we’ve still got time to get to Diagon Alley before the place closes.”

Hermione felt a grin tug at her mouth. “Wait. Sirius. Are we going on a date?” It had become a joke between them that they had yet to go on a proper conventional date.

“Hermione,” said Sirius gravely, “I think we may have reached that stage.”

—

As Hermione emerged from the fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron on Sirius’s heels, she realized that this date was not going to be quite so romantic as she’d, for a few moments, imagined. Already, she thought she could recognize a couple of people in the room. They were flying close to the sun on the gossip front by coming here alone together at all—in Diagon Alley, they could run into just about anyone they knew. As she pointed out to Sirius, in a somewhat panicked whisper.

“Hermione, people know that we live in the same house, it’s not that weird for us to be seen together. And I _work_ here. Calm down.” He waved at Tom the barman, who smiled at them. Looking back at Hermione, Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You know, the more nervous you look, the harder it’s going to be for me to resist kissing you in the middle of the street. Just to see what you’d do.”

Hermione gripped her wand threateningly, and did her best not to look nervous. They made it down a few blocks without incident, passing Ollivander’s and the newly reopened Florian Fortescue’s. As they approached Weasley Wizard Wheezes, Sirius developed an ominous sort of glint in his eye and veered towards that side of the street. He seemed to see what he was looking for, because he began waving heartily. A moment later, George poked his head up out of a large red box in the window and waved back at the both of them. Hermione was forced to wave awkwardly too. As soon as they were out of sight of the shop’s windows, she accelerated to kick Sirius in the shin.

“Oy! Is this what I get for common politeness? Love for my coworkers?”

“Politeness my foot.”

He rubbed at his shin, and started walking again. “Damn pointy little foot.”

When they had advanced another block, Sirius stopped and turned to her. “How would you feel about a blindfold? I promise to Disillusion you if I see anyone we know. It’s just so the store is a surprise.”

Hermione bit her lip. They were swimming in risk anyway, it was hardly worth clinging to what was left of her precautions. “Fine.”

Sirius produced a bandana for her eyes. Then he led her by the hands for a bit, and up a small step, and a bell jingled. Hermione was smiling already at the sounds around them. Sirius pulled off the blindfold, and they were standing in the middle of the Magical Menagerie. Bowtruckles and jewelled fire crabs, brilliantly colored frogs and birds, and even cats and dogs suspiciously mundane in appearance snuffled and croaked around the walls.

Sirius had his hands in his pockets, looking around at the cages. “I was thinking,” he said, “that you could maybe use a new Crookshanks in your life. But I didn’t think I could pick one that was ugly enough on my own.”

Hermione looked over at the shop assistant, a bored young man with a mustache who was leaning on the counter and watching them with some amusement. Well. He didn’t know anybody she knew. Hermione grabbed Sirius by the collar, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him enthusiastically.

“That’s more or less what I was hoping you’d say,” Sirius said, and smirked.

—

Sirius was looking less self-satisfied when they emerged half an hour later with a very small and nervous black dog—part-Crup, according to the shop lady, but Hermione suspected that most of those genes had largely been elbowed out by some kind of small spaniel. The little thing trembled in Hermione’s arms, and wagged his tail frantically whenever Sirius looked at him. Hermione had named him Sniffles and assured Sirius that no, she did not have to be joking.

Sniffles cuddled into her arm in a satisfying way, his little ears flopping sadly as he eyed anything they passed that was large enough to eat him—which was to say, everything. Hermione was delighted with how disgruntled Sirius looked every time he cast a glance back at the creature.

As they were rounding the corner, an unexpectedly familiar voice called out “Granger!” She turned to see Draco Malfoy striding around the bend from Knockturne Alley, hands in his pockets. “Black.” He nodded at Sirius. “Got yourself a new pet, Granger?” Malfoy’s eyebrows were raised as he took in the little dog, which was now cowering against Hermione’s bosom.

Hermione scratched the dog’s ears. “You’re alright, Sniffles. Yes, Malfoy, I’ve gotten a new little friend. Or we’ve gotten one, really, seeing as Sirius will have to put up with him.” And she grinned at Sirius, who offered Malfoy a pained sort of smile.

Malfoy smirked, looking between Sirius and her. “Charming.” He fell in with them, walking back up Diagon Alley. “Got the invitation for that party of Potter’s. How big a thing is this going to be?”

Hermione shrugged. “Big, Harry’s inviting loads of people. But not awfully formal. He’s using the tent where Bill and Fleur had a wedding reception, if that gives you an idea.”

“A Weasley wedding gives me… only the queasiest of ideas,” muttered Malfoy, but it seemed more out of reflex than anything, because he added more loudly, “I _am_ looking forward to it, though. Possibly because I’m a self-punishing masochist with a lust for public humiliation. Also alcohol. Do you think I can bring a plus one?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see why not. Please don’t make it Pansy.”

Malfoy smiled as if he might actually laugh. “Oh, Granger, I wouldn’t dream of it.” They walked further—Hermione wistfully setting aside the thought of stopping at Florian Fortescue’s with Sirius—and Malfoy eventually pointed at the dog in her arms. “Am I not supposed to know,” he asked, “that Black’s animagus form is a black dog?”

Sirius, who had been brooding over Sniffles since the pet shop, sighed in irritation. “Sod it. You two walk together, then.” And he trudged off ahead of them, shoulders stiff.

Hermione laughed. “Sirius. Sirius! I think he feels threatened by Sniffles at the moment.” She grinned at Malfoy, and stroked the little dog tenderly between the ears. “He’ll get over it. Sniffles already worships him.”

Sirius made a rude gesture back at them without turning around.

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth was quirked. “I wasn’t aware that Black was in the habit of collecting small… er, cute pets. It seems a tad off-brand.”

Hermione blinked. “It probably is. I think I’m corrupting him.”

“Are you?” A full-on Malfoy grin. “Interesting.”

Hermione realized she had probably said too much. Malfoy was no fool. Still, who was he going to tell that she’d been flirting with Sirius? Except his mother. Who might tell Andromeda…

Malfoy seemed to be enjoying watching her stew. After a minute, though, he took pity on her, and nodded at the dog. “How are you getting it home? Won’t it be scared of apparating or Flooing?”

That hadn’t occurred to Hermione. She hurried ahead and tugged on Sirius’s sleeve. “Sirius, Draco pointed out that Sniffles might-”

“I heard him.” Sirius shot a silver glare back at his cousin, who smirked obligingly. “Thanks, Malfoy.” He looked down at Hermione. “Do you have any Muggle money?”

She nodded.

“Great. Looks like we’re taking the Tube.” His hands were in the pockets of his leather coat, and he was doing his best to look thoroughly disgruntled. They had arrived at the back of the Leaky Cauldron now.

Hermione hugged the dog even closer, smiling when it licked her chin, and made the biggest eyes at him that she could manage. “Thank you, Sirius. I do love him already.”

His face twitched, and she could tell he was trying not to smile. “Alright,” he said. He looked at Malfoy. “See you, Blondie.” And then he actually hooked a finger into the belt loop of Hermione’s pants, and pulled her along after him into the Cauldron.

Hermione saw Malfoy watching them go, a catlike sort of smugness hovering about him that she didn’t quite like.

“Could you have been any more obvious?” she hissed at Sirius.

He pulled her up next to him, and let go of the belt loop. “Yes.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “ _Sirius_. We’ve lasted almost two months of this, we’ll be most of the way through the holidays after Harry’s party. You couldn’t hold out through a little Draco Malfoy?”

He tilted his head, looking haughtily unrepentant. “He was being _smarmy_ , Hermione. I was staking out my territory.”

“Oh, so I’m your _territory_ now, am I?”

He leaned in, with half a smile, and Hermione was almost afraid that he was going to kiss her in front of the whole Cauldron. “Aren’t you, though?”

She pressed her lips together, and glared at him. “It’s a two-way—” Sniffles chose that moment, though, to bark up at them in excitement, and begin thumping his tail against Hermione’s arm. Hermione looked down, and scratched his ears to calm him. It made the dizzy little thing’s eyes roll up in ecstasy. “Oh, Sniffles,” she told him, “your father is being impossible.”

“Merlin’s bloody beard.” Sirius stepped away, and was running his hands through his hair. “What have I done. Please don’t do that, Hermione.”

She started towards the door, grinning and patting the dog, whose paws were now up over her shoulder. All the better to hold him against her like an anxious, long-eared infant. “Do what, Sirius? _Who’s a good little boy? Are you going to do what you’re told? Yes, you are! That’s right!_ ” Sniffles was thumping his tail against her chest in vehement agreement. He was indeed a good little boy.

“I’m dating a monster,” Sirius informed a startled Tom the barman, who looked up from the table he was polishing in time to offer a confused sort of congratulations, before the couple disappeared out the door.

—

Sirius made a great show of his discomfort with Sniffles when they got home, refusing to call the dog by name when it was introduced to Harry and Ginny, and exiling the dog from Hermione’s bedroom for the half-hour or so he required to work through who exactly was whose “territory.”

When the dog began following him up and down the hallway as he went to brush his teeth, Hermione heard him say, “Alright, we’re getting this over with,” in a sinister tone. She poked her head out of her room to find Sirius in animagus form, nose to nose with the quivering little dog. Sirius let out one low growl, and Sniffles was off like a bolt and hiding under Hermione’s bed.

Sirius stood back up on two legs, looking irritatingly proud of himself.

Hermione put her hands on her hips. “Not nice.”

He tugged her hair and kissed her on his way back into her room. “I’m not always nice.” And he flopped onto her bed like a man who had conquered the world.

Hermione extracted a wide-eyed Sniffles from under the bedskirt and climbed into the bed, _far_ from Sirius, with the dog in her arms. “Poor little one.”

“Are you planning for it to sleep in the bed with us, Hermione?”

“What do you have against Sniffles? He loves you.”

“All animals love me. I’m irresistibly lovable. It’s my job to be the choosy one.”

“Well I have chosen Sniffles. So you could give him a chance. And no, I am not planning to have him sleep in the bed with us, but you’re going to have to put up with me snuggling him from time to time.”

He shifted over to kiss her neck. “Alright. As long as I get you afterwards.” And he offered Sniffles a conciliatory finger, letting the dog sniff it and then scratching him on the head with a comical frown.

For all his protest, it wasn’t three days later that Hermione stepped quietly out of the bathroom to find Sirius crouched on the floor with his back to her, rubbing the belly of a blissfully wiggling Sniffles. “Who’s disgustingly adorable? Yes you are, you little feather duster excuse for a dog. Yes, I love you too. Fuck you and your tiny, adorable ears.”

Putting her hands over her mouth, Hermione crept back into the bathroom and, quietly as she could, closed the door again.


	20. Mistletoe

Chapter Twenty

“You can’t be serious. My parents will be there.”

“I’m always Sirius.”

Hermione almost dropped her purse. “Did you—did you actually just say that? Did you honestly just make _the_ most obvious joke?” Sirius was backing towards his motorcycle, looking less than sorry. “I was going to say something about slipping standards, but, honestly, I don’t know how it’s taken you this long.”

Sirius sank onto the motorcycle and patted the top of its headlight, as if to comfort it at Hermione’s words. “C’mon, Hermione, what’s the harm in flying? I told Hagrid I’d show him how I’ve souped the thing up. And isn’t our policy with your parents these days to let them stew, anyhow? I mean, I’ll be really nice to them, obviously, but why does my poor motorcycle have to suffer? She gets lonely.”

Hermione eyed him for a moment. He was at this point leaning broodishly onto the handlebars, watching her like a cat. A cat trying very hard to look moody and succeeding only in looking smug. “…Fine. Rocket in to the party with as much motorcycle splendor as you want. Setting my parents aside, _I_ certainly won’t mind the sight.”

Sirius rose with a grin, all brooding forgotten. “Thank you, bossy witch. And I almost forgot. I have a present for you.”

“Sirius, you have to stop getting me presents, this is getting out of hand.”

“We all have our crosses to bear, Hermione. And anyway, I didn’t buy this one, it was sitting in a box in the attic.”

“Oh, wonderful. Is it cursed?” Then Sirius pulled it out of his jacket pocket, and Hermione put her hands over her mouth as if to push the words back in. “Oh, Sirius! It’s beautiful! Oh, Sirius, you can’t possibly give me something so… so…”

“Hermione,” he said, trapping her against the corner of the workbench as she tried to skitter away, “Even if it wasn’t you, I’d be delighted to give my mother’s jewelry to a beautiful muggleborn, if only to make Walburga roll a bit faster in her grave. The fact that it _is_ you, and that, if all goes according to plan, I’ll get to defile an ancestral Black bedroom again tonight with you wearing nothing _but_ this necklace… is a side benefit. And anyway, it matches your dress.”

“It… does match my dress,” Hermione admitted, her cheeks pink. The dress was a deep wine red, draped flatteringly in the front and cut low to reveal her whole back. The purchase had earned even Ginny’s raised eyebrow of approval. “I’m liking confident Hermione’s fashion choices,” had been the witch’s only comment.

“Turn around,” murmured Sirius.

“Are—I shouldn’t be late—"

“I’m going to put the necklace on you, you animal.”

“Oh. That’s fine.” Hermione turned around. As he finished clasping the choker around her neck, Sirius stayed there for a moment, leaning in close. Hermione smiled. “Sirius, are you smelling my hair again?”

“I’m about to spend a whole evening watching you wear _this_ and not being allowed to do anything about it. Give a man a moment.”

“Alright, silly man.” She laced her fingers into his where his hands had come around her waist. “Only a moment, though, or I’ll be late.”

“Don’t you mean _we’ll_ be late?”

“I’ve already accepted that you’re going to be as late as you want to be.”

His lips found her ear and she could feel him smiling. “Oh, how she knows me. Alright, sweetheart, go meet your parents.”

Hermione turned. She was feeling rather more powerful than usual in her red dress and heels. So she looked up at him, and thought that she was maybe going to say it. Actually, this time. “See you there.” She blinked. “Love you.”

Sirius’s hands slid down her lower back, and warm gray eyes moved close as he touched his nose to hers. His mouth twitched, as if he wasn’t sure if he was going to smile or say something. After a moment, he settled on, “Love you too, kitten. Now go—you in that dress in the same space as my motorcycle is about all I can take. My control could snap at any moment if you start saying things like that.”

“Worse things could happen.” And Hermione brushed a kiss against his lips, but then she did step away. Sirius’s eyes were glittering, his face a bit flushed despite his teasing tone. As she pivoted into the apparition, Hermione saw him running his hand through his hair, shaking his head as if to clear it. His smile was a white gleam.

—

“Oh, goodness,” murmured Phoebe Granger, in a tone that expressed her doubt as to whether any goodness was involved.

“Um,” managed Hermione. “Welcome to your first wizarding party, Mum. Dad. I think Harry must have put George Weasley in charge of the décor.”

“Ah.” Mark mustered a smile. “How is George? He co-runs Sirius’s business, doesn’t he?”

Hermione kept her expression steady by force of will. “Yes, he does. He’s quite well. I’ll put your coats, um, over… there, shall I? And then we’ll go in.”

George, if George it had been, had transformed the outside of the tent into a kind of faceted ice-palace. Ice, in that it appeared to be bluish and translucent. Faceted, in that the whole thing functioned more or less as a disco ball. A small forest of trees had been summoned around the edge of it. Trees with bowtruckles in them. Bowtruckles, if Hermione wasn’t mistaken, that appeared to be in costume as Santa’s elves. Hermione would be having strong words with George at some point soon.

In the meantime, Hermione ushered her parents through hastily and unscathed, and they emerged into a blessedly more normal tent already packed with party-goers.

Directly in front of them, however, stood Priscilla Delac, arms crossed. She was planted next to a translucent glowing white column, and inside the column appeared to be standing—George Weasley and Draco Malfoy?

“George,” Priscilla was saying, “I will have no one to talk to if you stay in there.”

“Cilla, love, I would like to be out there every bit as much as you would like me to. But that’s not how the spell works. It—oh, hello, Dr. Granger! And Dr. Granger.” George waved heartily, for all the world as if he spent every party inside a white column, and narrowly missed elbowing Draco Malfoy in the ribs. Draco merely hunched further towards his side of the column, determinedly facing away.

Her parents greeted George with surprising composure, and then Hermione introduced them to Priscilla as well, feeling like she had to.

Priscilla was gazing at her parents avidly. “Welcome _back_ , Monsieur and Madame Granger. It is so wonderful to meet you. You mean so much to your daughter. It fills me with such—such hope to see this.”

While her parents hemmed and hawed and generally blinked like the British introverts they were, Hermione cleared her throat. “What’s up with George and Draco, Priscilla?” Draco had a hand on his forehead and had closed his eyes, as if trying to block out the world. George, meanwhile, seemed to be getting a great kick out of the fact that he could now literally carry out the typical mime impression of being trapped in a very small space.

“George,” said Priscilla, “has trapped himself with his own silly spell. He should have listened to me.”

“Cilla,” said George, “doesn’t see the _romance_ in it. It’s Christmas, after all. Mistletoe.” And he pointed upward, to where a clump of mistletoe bobbed in the middle of the column of light. “Of course, I reckoned it’d be hilarious because _I_ imagined that Harry would only invite people who would get along. At least at some level. It was wonderful, for instance, when Trelawney and McGonagall got trapped. A sight I’ll take to the grave, truly. But you should see some of the creeps who have turned up.” He glanced at Malfoy. “No offense.”

Hermione had a sinking feeling. “George… does the column work how I think it does?”

He bowed, to the extent that he could inside the column, and gave her a little flourish.

“Hermione?” asked Phoebe.

“If I’m right,” explained Hermione, “George has enchanted the mistletoe to, I assume, only release people once they have kissed each other.”

George nodded. “Malfoy and I have accepted that we’re going to die here.”

“Speak for yourself, Weasley.” Malfoy hadn’t turned around or opened his eyes. “I haven’t abandoned the idea that the spell might break if there’s only one person inside it still surviving. My real dilemma here is murder or suicide. There are things to be said for both sides.”

George only shook his head. Looking at Hermione, he put a hand against the barrier with the air of a Dickensian orphan. “If you can figure out any way to levitate in food, it would be much appreciated.”

“George,” said Hermione, “When you made the spell, did you specify what kind of kiss it had to be? Has either of you tried kissing the other someplace _other_ than on the lips?”

George blinked. “I… um-” then his eyes widened, for, quick as a snake, Malfoy had seized his wrist, and pressed his lips to the back of George’s hand.

The column flickered and dissolved, and Malfoy almost threw George’s hand away, as if it had stung him. Then he straightened his suit and brushed back his hair, for all the world as if nothing untoward had happened at all. “Thanks, Granger. I assumed the bloody idiot knew how his own spell worked. Now, where in Merlin’s name is the bar?”

And he strode off into the crowd. George was shaking his hand as if to rid it of dirty liquid, looking aggrieved. He stepped forward to offer his other hand to Hermione’s parents. “Well, now that that’s figured out, the mistletoe’s back to being just funny, if rather less dramatically so. Keep an ear out for the humming if you want to avoid it. My parents are over there, by the way, if you want to say hello.” And he winked at them, took Priscilla by the arm, and slipped off in the opposite direction from Malfoy.

Grateful for the pointer, Hermione led her parents through the crowd towards the bright red hair of Arthur and Molly on the far side of the tent.

“Ooh, _Hermione_ ,” burst out Mrs. Weasley when she caught sight of her, “don’t you look lovely.” And before Hermione quite knew what was happening, Molly gathered her in for a long, meaningful hug. Then she drew back, fixing a curl of Hermione’s hair and meeting her eyes mournfully. “It’s so lovely to see you, dear. I’ve so missed you.” This was the first time they’d properly seen each other since Hermione and Ron had broken up.

“You too, Mrs. Weasley.” Hermione supposed she might have missed her a bit.

The older woman patted her cheek for a moment, and sighed, as if they didn’t need words to express to each other the sadness passing between them. Hermione tried not to look insultingly blank. Then Molly let go and turned to Hermione’s parents, and warm greetings were exchanged all around.

Probably warm laments, too, thought Hermione sourly, when the four parents had managed to form enough of a conversation bubble to largely shut her out. It was only a matter of time before they would all start wringing their hands over the unborn grandchildren they would never share.

Happily, Harry and Ginny soon wormed their way out of the crowd.

“I see they found each other. Mum’s been bustling about seeing your parents for days now. I think she might be plotting to try and trick Ron and you into having another go.” Ginny smirked.

“You don’t say.” Hermione eyed Mrs. Weasley’s back. “I’d say I’d like to see her try, except that it would really be nice for her and Sirius to stay on speaking terms.”

Harry snorted. “Agreed. Speaking of—where’s your lesser half?” Harry had been working on awkwardly embracing Hermione and Sirius’s relationship recently. His latest attempt was using it as a forum for cheerfully mocking Sirius whenever possible.

“Not here yet. I think we’ll all, uh, hear him well before he gets here.”

“You caved?”

“I caved.”

Ginny held out a hand towards Harry, who frowned, dug into the pocket of his suit, and produced a sickle that he dropped into her palm. “Thank _you_. And that will teach you to bet against me when love and motorcycles are on the line.” The grin quickly faded from her face, though. “Oh, _he didn’t_.”

Harry and Hermione turned to see what she was looking at. Ron was making his way across the tent towards them. Behind him trailed a blonde girl who looked vaguely familiar.

“Mum.” Ginny nudged Mrs. Weasley, and jerked her chin at Ron. “Look who Ronald brought.”

Mrs. Weasley turned, saw, and pursed her lips. Then she tried to plaster on something like a smile, because Ron and the girl were getting closer. “Ah, Gabrielle. We didn’t know you could make it, dear!”

Gabrielle? Why did that ring such a bell? It wasn’t until Hermione saw Fleur and Bill pushing through the crowd towards them that she put two and two together. This was Fleur’s little sister. She must be visiting from France. Well, that was nice. Why did Ginny look like she was trying to ignore a bad smell? Didn’t they all like Fleur at this point?

Then Ron had properly reached them. “Hi, hi, Mum, Dad. Harry.” He hugged Harry, and they pounded each other’s backs. Then, ears red, Ron offered his hand to Hermione’s parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Granger, great to see you.”

Phoebe squeezed his hand visibly. “Lovely to see you, Ron. I hope you’re well.” The traitor.

Ron gave an awkward sort of nod, and then turned to hug Hermione. “Hey, ‘Mione.” Then he drew back, and looked at the Grangers and Harry. “I’d, uh, like you to meet Gabby, my… girlfriend.”

Hermione kept her smile fixed in place as “Gabby” said some cute, heavily French-accented things about being on break from her courses in Paris, and how Ron had wanted her to see what Christmas is like in England. “Eet isn’t so long zat vee are together,” she shot a coquettish glance up at Ron, taking his arm, “But I do not like to be apart, so I say yes.”

“Yes,” said Fleur, “Ze only people missing Ron vill be our parents, zey ‘ave so enjoyed ‘aving you stay vith zem.” And she squeezed Ron’s other arm.

Hermione found it hard to believe that Fleur’s parents were clear on all the details of Ron’s relationship with Gabrielle, if they were saying that. Though they _were_ French. Ron had his arm around Gabrielle’s waist, now, and was beaming down at the two blonde women.

Muttering something in the general vicinity of Ginny’s ear, Hermione excused herself and headed for the bar. Draco was there, leaning against it in the corner, and when Hermione took up a spot next to him he silently toasted her. Then they stood there, drinking and brooding without, apparently, the need for words. If Draco Malfoy could be counted on for anything, it was sulking.

Eventually, Hermione’s self-pitying fog was broken by a vast roar passing over the tent. Moments later, Sirius came in looking windblown. He walked right over to the towering form of Hagrid, only to have a glowing white column shoot down around them. Hermione saw Hagrid gesture widely, presumably explaining. Then Sirius grabbed Hagrid’s beard, for all the world as if he was going to kiss the half-giant full on the mouth, but at the look on Hagrid’s face he pulled back. Hermione couldn’t hear it, but she knew he was cackling. Then he clasped Hagrid’s hand instead and kissed it with great chivalry. The white column vanished, the mistletoe hovering innocently off to claim its next victim, and the two men headed for the tent’s exit. Presumably to see the mighty vehicle itself.

Draco nudged Hermione’s arm. “Careful, Granger, I think you’re drooling a bit.”

Hermione tried to glare at him. “Who gave you permission to suddenly understand what I’m thinking, Malfoy?”

He batted his eyelashes. “Oh, Granger, I’ve always understood the eyes of a woman in love. Terrible shame my heart’s so inaccessible to them. I’d be swimming in women.” Hermione snorted, but then the grin faded from Draco’s face, and he nodded towards something behind her. “Weasel alert.”

Hermione turned. Ron had just made his way to the bar, ears red. He looked at Draco. “You, um, planning on going away, Malfoy? I’d like to talk to my—my friend.”

“Oh, but Weasley,” drawled Draco, “this is quite my favorite spot in the whole party. I’ve got such back support. It would be a terrible trouble to move.”

Feeling steely, Hermione put down her drink. “It’s alright, Draco, I don’t think Ron and I have anything private to talk about at the moment anyway.”

Ron’s mouth tightened, and he shifted his feet awkwardly for a moment, as if deciding whether to go through with this at all. He seemed to take a deep breath. “Alright. I’m sorry you found out like this about my… new girlfriend, ‘Mione. I didn’t realize it would fall out like that, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I hope—I hope you know it didn’t have anything to do with how much you meant to me.”

Hermione tilted her head. “How long have you been dating?”

Ron’s eyes shifted. “Um… about two months?” Ron had never been all that great at mental math. That meant he had, at best, broken up with Hermione in order to be with Gabrielle. Not that Hermione really had high ground to stand on there.

“But,” Ron was saying, “I’m sure you’ll find someone of your own soon. Someone great. You’ve got a lot to offer. I really hope you’ll be happy, ‘Mione.” It would have been sweet if it weren’t so condescending. The tone he’d use for the bushy-haired, buck-toothed girl from the Hogwarts Express.

Draco spat his drink—something vile with vodka—back into his glass and began to gape delightedly at Ron. “Why, Weasley, do you imagine Granger’s been sitting here _pining_ in your absence? Alone and loveless, without her big strong boyfriend? That she’d have trouble finding someone else to fill the _void_?”

Hermione was beginning to understand why Draco enjoyed sneering like that. Ron was frowning, looking back and forth between them with growing consternation. “I’m not, that’s not—you’re not saying that _you_ -”

“Oh, _Ronald_ ,” hissed Hermione, and then she spun on her heel and was off into the crowd.

She could hear Draco laughing behind her. “Oh, Weaselby, _please_ …”

She was almost glad that Draco had forced her hand. It gave her the excuse she needed to give her anger and frustration free reign. And right now her anger and frustration wanted exactly one thing.

She tracked Sirius down talking to, of all people, Molly Weasley. All the better. Might as well go big. Coming up to Sirius’s side, she turned him around by the arm and grabbed his tie. “Pardon me, Mrs. Weasley, I need Sirius for something.” Mrs. Weasley was looking at her like she’d sprouted horns. She only smiled, and began to pull Sirius away through the crowd.

“Everything okay, kitten?”

“Oh, splendid. You’re tall, do you see—ah, _there_ it is.” She veered to the side, dragging Sirius with her, and landed them squarely beneath the benignly hovering mistletoe. Glowing walls promptly slammed down around them.

“I take it that the secrecy plan has changed?” Sirius’s eyes were dancing.

“Ron brought his girlfriend of two months. It seems I’m the only one who was bothering to think about the other one’s feelings. So I figure I can bloody well kiss my boyfriend in front of him. What’s that look for?”

“I think I’ve mentioned how hot you are when you’re angry.” Sirius was leaning closer, hands sliding around her waist.

“Good. Kiss me like you mean it, then. Just not quite yet. I’m giving people a second to notice that we’re in here.”

And they were noticing. Ron had followed her through the crowd and come to a dumbfounded halt a little ways away. His mother arrived beside his shoulder and seemed, from her expression, to be saying something very worried to him. Draco, on their heels, only looked smug. The knots of people talking around them were gradually dissolving, as everyone turned to look. They knew a lot of these people—George and Priscilla, Neville, Lee, even Professor Sprout.

“Now?” said Sirius.

Hermione turned to him. “Now.”

He bent and she leaned into the kiss with such enthusiasm that he almost lifted her from the ground. They came up for air only when physically forced to, and not before someone nearby had let out a low whistle, and a few people clapped.

Hermione looked around to expressions ranging from shock and outrage to amusement. George Weasley waited until her eyes were on him to mime swooning into Lee’s arms in a dead faint.

At least he was grinning. Ron and Mrs. Weasley decidedly were not. Ron had the expression of someone hit suddenly on the head by something very nasty. Something dead, perhaps. Shock, and dawning horror. Mrs. Weasley’s face was turning a dangerous shade of red as her eyes widened, and she took a step closer. “Did—did— _Sirius Black_ —”

Draco Malfoy, of all people, pushed past her. “Alright, Granger.” He straightened his collar. “I have no idea why I’m falling on my sword for _you_ of all people, but you can’t have all the limelight.”

Then he reached through the crowd for someone, and pulled out a nervous-looking Blaise Zabini. “Draco, I—are you really—” said Blaise weakly. Even Sirius looked confused at this point.

Gripping Blaise’s arm, Draco shouldered past Sirius—“Out of the way, cousin,”—and made a lunge for the space beneath the mistletoe. The glowing column shimmered into view around the two Slytherins. Then, before George Weasley could mutter more than a weak “What in the bloody—”, Draco seized Blaise by the jaw and kissed him full on the mouth. If this kiss was anything like that between her and Sirius, Hermione could understand why there had been applause.

And then, when the column disappeared, Draco simply swept a hand over his hair to make sure all was in place, took Blaise by the hand, and headed back towards the bar.

“Well,” said Hermione. “I guess that explains why Draco wanted a plus one. And you were _jealous_.”

Sirius looked down at her. “Over that little greaseball? Please.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows.

“Only _very slightly_ jealous. The kid does have a good jawline. He gets it from my side of the family.”

The people around them were eddying like schools of fish, likely off to spread the two tidbits of explosive gossip that had just dropped. Mrs. Weasley, unfortunately, was still standing not far off, and still looking very much at them.

Sirius pointedly slid a hand around onto Hermione’s bare back, and Hermione was fairly sure she saw Mrs. Weasley’s nostrils flare. Hermione wrapped her hands up onto his shoulders, pretending not to see Molly. “Shall we go dance? It’s harder for them to corner us there.”

Sirius grinned. “And easier for me to get away with keeping my hands all over you. Lead on.”

For all his words, he kept his hands fairly demurely to Hermione’s waist and back once they were dancing. Hermione was gradually becoming deeply conscious of all the eyes on them, so she found herself moving closer and closer, until she was essentially hiding her face against Sirius’s chest while they danced. He was murmuring updates into her hair. “Molly’s reached your parents now.” A rumble of a laugh. “Merlin, that doesn’t look good. No, don’t look, you don’t want to.” He pushed a curl behind her ear. “They’re looking right at us, if you look now you’ll make eye contact and it’ll all be over.”

“Why?”

“Because _you’ll_ feel like you have to talk to them. I’ve got no manners, though. So I’m fine.”

“We complete each other.”

“Why do you sound like you’re complaining when you say that?”

Hermione smiled against his chest. “Why would I ever complain about you?”

“I want you to know that your sarcasm hurts me.” Hermione snorted. “It does,” insisted Sirius. “An arrow, straight to my big, strong heart.” Hermione poked at his chest. “Yes, the one in there.”

“It’s a relief to hear you confirm that you’ve got one.” Hermione smiled up at him.

They had stopped dancing, and he tugged gently at one of her curls. “Don’t be silly. You’ve been well aware of that.”

His gray eyes had drained of mischief, now, and held some new kind of warmth. “Have I?” said Hermione, to say something.

They were prevented from kissing in front of everyone for a second time when the music cut out and the lights dimmed. Harry was standing on a lit platform at the far end of the tent. “Hi, everyone.” His voice was magically amplified, and he sounded a bit nervous. “I want to thank you all for coming. It’s been long enough since the war now that I thought we could really lean into a spirit of celebration. Looking forward rather than back, you know. And, um, in that spirit. I have an announcement to make. Or, actually,” he held out a hand, “Ginny and I do.”

Ginny climbed up onto the platform, and there was a silent moment where they seemed to be arguing in gestures. Then Harry pointed his wand at Ginny’s throat to cast the amplification spell. She turned to the crowd, and raised her arms. “Hey, everyone. It seems right to announce this together. So, even though _several people_ have apparently done their best to steal our thunder tonight,” a chuckle ran around the tent, “Harry and I would like to tell you all… that we’re _getting married!_ ”

The tent filled with cheers and applause, not the least of which were Hermione and Sirius’s. Mrs. Weasley was already crying as she made her way towards the couple.

Sirius took Hermione’s arm. “It’s probably cheating to just apparate over to them, right?”

“And you could splinch someone on landing.”

“Fair point. Alright, hold on tight while I shove people out of the way.”

Hermione did just that, and they made it through to the far side of the tent. When those closest to the couple saw Hermione and Sirius, they moved aside to let them by. Sirius pulled Harry up into a bear hug straight away, so Hermione threw her arms around Ginny.

“Oh, Ginny. This is wonderful, of course. When did you decide?”

Ginny grinned at her, practically glowing. “The night before I caught you in bed with that git over there. I was going to tell you that morning, but…” she shrugged, her smile acquiring an edge.

Hermione sighed. “I can’t blame you. I’m still… sorry about that. Can—can we maybe say no more secrets?”

Ginny pulled her in tight. “You’ve got it. And anyway, I love you secrets and all.”

“I love you too, Ginny.”

Harry was next. He hugged Hermione hard, and then they looked at each other for a few moments, beyond words. “This is really exciting,” Hermione finally said. “So exciting, and I’m so proud of you, Harry, and so happy for you two.”

His grin was crooked. “Thanks, Hermione. It—it really is exciting. A little terrifying. In a good way. And, um, I’ve been meaning to say. I’m happy for you too. You and Sirius.” And he hadn’t even stumbled over the words.

Hermione hadn’t realized how much hearing Harry say that would mean. She hugged him fiercely again, and blinked away the odd tear or two of joy before she went to join Sirius again at the side of the tent.

He put his arm around her shoulders. “Helga bloody Hufflepuff. If it isn’t like just like old times.” He was looking at Harry and Ginny, with an odd sort of smile.

Hermione hugged him a bit closer. “And also not.”

He looked down at her. “That too.” And he smiled properly, and kissed the top of her head. “If they’re anything like James and Lily, though, they’ll be unbearable to live with now.”

“Hmm. We could start gently planting the idea of them getting their own house, for after the wedding.”

“I could like that idea. Having you all to myself.” He was smiling a smile that Hermione thought she should maybe ask him to reserve in future for when they were alone together. “Speaking of which—we should obviously stay for some cake, but how do you feel about getting out of here after that? I have a plan to follow up on.”

Hermione’s cheeks heated. “That’s right. You do. Let me take my parents home first. Then I’m all yours.”

Hermione took her parents to congratulate Harry and Ginny and bid them goodnight, and then she apparated them all back to the Wilkins’ little flat.

Before Hermione could turn away to disapparate again, her mother sighed. She had her hands on her hips. Hermione waited. “Whatever else I have to say for the man,” Phoebe finally said, “it seems like your Sirius is head over heels for you.”

Mark shifted. “You look happy, Hermione,” he said quietly, when Hermione looked at him.

Her parents looked old. Then they unlocked their door, and went in.

They had never looked so old to her. And Hermione was seized by a brief pang of that fear that never went away, these days, that they weren’t really the same parents she’d had, deep down.

She pushed the feeling aside, again. She had a wizard to defile a house with.

She apparated back to the tent’s entrance, only to come upon George and Priscilla, getting rather excessively cozy in the shadow of the tent flap. Hermione wasn’t a great fan of George’s taste there, but there wasn’t much to be done. Priscilla, noticing Hermione, pulled herself away enough to mention again how nice it had been to meet Hermione’s parents, and that she hoped to see them again soon. At least the witch tried to be nice.

Hermione went further in to find Sirius finishing a piece of cake, looking increasingly irritated as Mrs. Weasley gesticulated by his shoulder and talked to him in all but tears.

“Merlin, Molly, we’re dating like anybody else dates. What do you mean, what do I want from her? What does anyone want? She’s a grown woman, she can-”

“She’s a _young_ woman, Sirius, with—with _innocence-_ ”

Sirius made a small choking sound, and pointed his fork at her. “I beg to differ on the innocence front. And I,” he offered her a toothy smile, “would know.”

She gaped at him. “Sirius Black, this is _monstrously_ irresponsible. That girl is like a daughter to me, and I will not have you-”

Hermione managed to squeeze behind Hagrid, at this point, and made it to Sirius’s side. She slid her arm up through his, possessively. “Hello, Molly.” She wasn’t going to call her “Mrs. Weasley” if she was going to talk to Sirius like that. The witch seemed to notice the coldness in Hermione’s tone, for she shut her mouth and just looked at the two of them in bemusement. “Hello, love,” Hermione added, and kissed Sirius on the cheek for good measure. “Ready to head home?”

He looked down at her, eyes glinting. “I am. Planning to take the motorbike. Care for a ride, love?”

Hermione wrinkled her nose at him. Then she looked at Mrs. Weasley. “Of _course_ ,” she purred.

And so it was that Mrs. Weasley and several others trailed out of the tent to watch as Sirius drove his motorcycle round in front of the tent, and Hermione, trying hard not to look doubtful about it, settled onto it behind him.

“Hold on tighter than that,” Sirius told her.

“For our audience, or for safety?”

“Will it make you feel better if I tell you it’s for the audience?”

Hermione pressed her lips together, and wrapped her arms around Sirius’s waist in her best approximation of a death grip.

“That’s my delicate flower,” he wheezed, and patted her comfortingly on the thigh. Hopefully for the benefit of their audience, as Hermione did _not_ feel comforted. “Remind me to come to you if I ever need someone to perform the Heimlich.”

“You would currently be out of luck, as I think I might want you dead.”

“I love you too, kitten.” Sirius let the engine give a growl, and grinned. “Alright. Night, everyone!” he called.

And then the wretched machine was _moving_. With a roar, and an awful rushing drop in Hermione’s stomach, they were off and away into the sky. Winter air whipped around them, and they passed through a shockingly cold cloud bank, and Sirius let out a whoop of exhilaration. Hermione clung to him. And whimpered, possibly. The lights in the countryside winked out below as they passed more clouds, Sirius taking them higher as they headed for London.

Sirius glanced back at Hermione a few times, checking on her, and she could see even in the cool blue dark up here that his face was alight. He loved this. This was freedom for him, and joy. Like she’d felt as an animagus, sparkling through the water. So she didn’t look down, and she leaned her head against Sirius’s shoulders, and felt his warmth against her.

And gradually the engine slowed to a purr, and for a time there was nothing to see but the stars.


	21. New Year, New Veil

Chapter Twenty-One

“Hermione?” The tapping came again on the bathroom door. “Hermione, are you in there?”

“She can’t be serious.” Sirius pulled away, the water from the shower now catching him squarely in the back of the head.

“Yes, Ginny, I’m here!” Hermione reached up and nudged the shower-head further away. She looked down at Sirius. “I would say she’s serious, but as we’ve been discussing recently, you’re the only one who’s technically—”

“Watch it, witch.” He moved the fingers that were already inside her, apparently for emphasis, and she bit her lip. “Let’s just think about who’s currently—”

“Hermione, I can’t find the silver knife from the potion kit downstairs, and I was wondering—”

“Go _away_ , Ginny!” called Sirius. And then let out a mighty sigh, resting his forehead against Hermione’s stomach, as footsteps failed to move immediately away from the door.

“I just want her advice for a _second_ , on whether I should—”

Sirius seemed to decide that he would simply continue as if Ginny wasn’t there. He urged Hermione’s knee further to the side and recommenced doing something with his tongue that Hermione still wasn’t convinced didn’t involve magic.

Hermione bit back a moan and murmured, “Wait, Sirius, after she goes…”

He pulled back again to look darkly up at her, and as she brushed wet hair out of his eyes, he mouthed, “ _Make her go_ ,” before moving in again with his tongue.

“Ginny,” Hermione managed, half on a gasp, “I’m rather—busy—can this w-wait—”

“Oh. Merlin. You animals.” Then the sound of her footsteps retreating.

But Sirius was drawing back even so. Hermione looked down at him in consternation, her fingers wound through his hair. They’d just been getting to the good part.

“My knees,” he informed her, “are starting to hurt.”

“Oh. Oh, of course, you don’t need—”

He’d wrapped a hand around her thigh to stop her moving. “Where do you think you’re going? I’m not giving _up_ , idiot, we’re just—” he fumbled around at the side of the tub for his wand “—rearranging.”

“Did you just call me an _idi—_ ” but then Hermione was rising a foot or two into the air to hover and her words vanished into a yelp of alarm as Sirius grinned up at her.

He gripped her legs and pulled them over his shoulders as he leaned back against the edge of the tub. “Mm, magic. And yes, I did call you an idiot.” He kissed the inside of her thigh, and smirked as she wound her hands into his hair again to anchor herself. “I’m a man of many words, for you. I can even spell them. Want to see?”

Hermione figured the noises she made over the next few minutes were enough to indicate that yes, she did want to see and that, furthermore, she approved very much of his spelling methods demonstration.

When they’d finished and Hermione was sufficiently limp, he levitated her down into the tub again, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. She leaned back against him, still catching her breath, and he ran fingers through her wet hair, absently combing it out along his chest. “When do we think we can get them out?”

“Hmm?” Hot water was still pattering onto her stomach, and she was essentially melted against Sirius. It was altogether fairly difficult to think at the moment.

“Harry and Ginny. They’re looking at houses, aren’t they?”

That was a screeching topic shift. She tried to look up at him. “I thought you liked having Harry live with you?” She could only faintly remember his earlier complaint. “Are they being that annoying about the engagement?”

“I do. They’re not. But.” The hand in her hair stopped moving, and then tugged gently. “I’m realizing I want my own space with you, little witch. Something territorial. I can’t help it.”

Ah. Not a topic shift. She smiled. “You want to throw me over your shoulder and take me back to your cave, is that it?”

“I recognize that you’re calling me a caveman. But if I had a cave,” his arms came around her and lips found the side of her neck, “that’s exactly what I’d mean.”

She rolled over to rest her chin on his chest and blink up at him. “Well. I think it’s maybe only a few months. Ginny’s been mentioning neighborhoods already. So you’ll have me to yourself in a bit.” She paused, and smirked. “Remind me why you want me? To yourself?”

He looked confused, and then rolled his eyes. “You’re still making me say it?”

She grinned, and leaned her head on his chest entreatingly.

He sighed. “Because I love you, Hermione.”

“And you didn’t even stutter.” She shifted up to kiss him, and as she did, she felt a somewhat unexpected hardness. She raised amused eyebrows. “Already? I’m honored.”

“Shut up. You’ve somehow confused my body into thinking it’s in its twenties again.”

“Did I sound like I was complaining?”

He let out a half-groan, half-laugh as she began shifting her hips efficiently. “No, no, get out of the tub. Shower sex is going to get a lot less fun if we get all pruny.”

“But Ginny could be lurking in the hallway. Or Kreacher.”

He had followed her out, and now he lifted her summarily onto the vanity table in the corner. “No one said anything about the hallway.”

That was a fair point, so she kissed him back and wrapped her legs around him. A bit later, she managed on half a whimper, “Ginny and Harry really _do_ have to find a house.”

Sirius stopped moving and murmured against her neck, “Remind me why?” She could feel his teasing smile.

“Because-” And then he did start moving again, holding her hips hard and pressing kisses against her jaw. “-because—I—l-love—you— _Sirius_.”

“I think you stuttered.” Said with satisfaction. “Try again.”

…

“Are you sure you’re ready?”

Hermione was fairly sure that she was the only one who had heard Luna, apart from Dorian. The wizard was standing before the archway, the finally completed cloth hanging from his hands. His face was pale, and Luna hovered beside him.

Hermione was standing between them, Priscilla, and the audience of extra Unspeakables that had been working with them in the weeks since the Veil had started… doing things. As much as the Veil should be the frightening thing in the room, Hermione felt like Dorian and Luna were the ones she was shielding just now.

“As much as I’ll ever be,” said Dorian at last, or Hermione thought he did. He stepped forward, pulling out his wand, and the odd, vaporous cloth fluttered from his hand. It hung in the air above them all for a moment, undulating, and Dorian shot a look over his shoulder at Priscilla. When Hermione looked back at her too, there was nothing in her face. An intense, black-eyed focus, maybe.

Dorian swept his wand downwards, and the cloth sank into place, attaching itself to the archway with a sudden rush—as if it had been waiting for permission. There was a feeling like a sigh, then, as if some energy in the room had shifted.

Dorian stepped back, and everyone else crowded forward to look. It was the Veil. Or, at least, a Veil. The cloth fluttered just as Hermione remembered—not the clean movement of a gust of wind, but small disturbances, as if something, or someone, had just passed its other side. But why could she see through the Veil, to the stone floor on the far side? Had she somehow imagined that yawning nothingness, exaggerated that gray void in her mind?

Priscilla stepped forward. “It isn’t right.”

Dorian looked sideways at her. “Priscille, I—Priscille!” He grabbed at her, but before he could stop her, she had thrust her hand through the Veil.

She pulled it back and simply looked at him. “It is an echo, Dorian. An excuse. What are you thinking?”

Dorian had moved back, and almost knocked against Luna. “I don’t know why it isn’t working. I thought it should. I—I will have to work on this.”

Priscilla’s eyes were sparkling with something like outrage. “You _should_ know why. Who else? You made it work the first time. You-”

“YES!” shouted Dorian over her, and everyone looked at him in astonishment. It was as if a mask had lifted, and he spoke now with desperation. “Yes, Priscille, I know why it worked the first time. We took a life. And I will not do so again, no matter how much you want your—your _Veil_.”

Priscilla’s face had drained, but she ignored the reactions of everyone but her brother. “ _We_ didn’t kill him. You know that.”

“Oh, of course. Luna did. Tell yourself that if it helps, Priscille, but it cannot change the fact that _I will not build that Veil again_.” Had Dorian been any tenser, Hermione thought he might have started to tremble. He and Priscilla stood facing each other. Hermione didn’t know what they meant—had Luna’s _avada kedavra_ somehow killed somebody, all those months ago? Hadn’t those in the Veil been dead already?

Priscilla’s wide, dark eyes took Dorian in for a long moment, and then she looked the rest of the group over slowly. Hermione had the feeling of a rabbit, staying very still as a large and terrible thing moved by. If she could simply stay quiet and calm, she could go right to Fenshaw in a few minutes, and dump this whole mess into the older witch’s pensieve.

“I understand,” said Priscilla, finally, and someone made a small, inadvertent noise. Luna, Hermione thought. “You could simply have told me, Dorian, that you felt this way. And, so. We will find a different way. We have time. You have my faith.” And she tried to take his hand.

Dorian was leaning towards her, his face softening, but then he looked at Luna. He pulled his hands away and pushed them into the sleeves of his robes, as if to keep them from Priscilla, or anyone. He raised his chin. “No.” Priscilla stared at him. Dorian swallowed. “No, Priscille. If this has not finished it, I will not work on this Veil anymore. I—I do not _want_ it to work again.”

“You can’t mean that.” Priscilla’s eyes were filling with tears.

“I do.” Dorian nodded firmly, as if this might counteract the paleness in his face, or the uncertainty with which he looked around a moment later. He stepped over to Priscilla again, and wrapped his arms around her. “I do. I _am_ sorry. I know our work meant… a lot. We must let it go. This isn’t the end, though, we can-”

Priscilla pushed him away as suddenly as she had crumpled, wiping her face dry with her sleeve. She turned to Hermione and Luna, summoning up some pantomime of a cheerful smile. “Well. If that is all to be done here. We shall do other things. How goes your work, Luna? Hermione? I have been meaning to ask you about your—your fascinating work with your parents.” And she reached for Hermione’s arm. Hermione let herself be pulled off into a tangent. If she could defuse today’s bomb, so be it.

Standing by the archway minutes later, Dorian looked very alone. He was staring up at his creation, a solemn, strange look on his face. Had she gotten a better look at him, Hermione might have called it hatred.

Luna eventually managed to extract herself from the conference of muttering Unspeakables further up in the chamber. She returned to Dorian and, from what Hermione could see past Priscilla’s shoulder, simply wrapped her arms around him from the back.

He turned, and a smile broke out on his face. Then he leaned down and kissed the sandy-haired witch, with a look of such trust and abandon that Hermione felt a tug in her heart. She made sure to keep Priscilla talking. This moment wasn’t for her to share.

…

Hermione clung to Sirius’s fur and tried not to squeak as he bounded down the final steps faster than she would have liked. It was a lot harder to hold on with paws than with hands. Still, they’d realized they had calmed down enough about their animal pheromones now to transform with each other even when Harry and Ginny were around. And, in the days since, everyday games like this had yet to get boring. Unfamiliar sensations, unexpected views of familiar things.

Sirius trotted around the corner, heading for the kitchen, and very suddenly a human, smelling of very elegant perfume, was standing over them. And then the fur under Hermione was slipping, and she shrieked unhappily—or chittered, as it came out—and tried to hold on.

And now her claws were hooked firmly into a sweater on a broad shoulder, and a very human Sirius was looking up at the woman in front of them from where he sat on the floor. “Um, hello, Dr. Granger.”

Hermione squeaked, and scrambled forward, and she landed across Sirius’s legs as she reached full human form again. “ _Please_ don’t transform while you’re _carrying_ me, Sirius.” She looked up at her mother. “Hello, mum. You do know the party doesn’t start for another hour?”

Phoebe shifted her hands from her hips. “I thought I’d help. You seem like you could use help standing, for instance.” Hermione accepted the hand up, rolling her eyes. “Harry was kind enough to let me in,” added Phoebe, a certain self-congratulation in her tone. Hermione was already regretting having shown her parents how to find Grimmauld Place from the outside. “Forgive me for asking, sweetheart. But. Were you just—a ferret?”

Sirius, standing up beside Hermione, barked a laugh. She narrowed her eyes at him. “An _otter_ , mum. It’s a recent skill. Quite tricky. Sirius taught me.” The wizard in question smirked insufferably, but Hermione pressed on. “It’s rare enough magic that it helped him escape from Azkaban, all those years back.”

“Ah?” Phoebe might have been trying to smile politely, but then quick clicks sounded as Sniffles came around the corner. He began to bark furiously, dodging when Sirius reached for him. Phoebe looked down at the dog. “Is this going to turn into anyone I know?”

Hermione grinned. “No, he’s just our dog.”

Sirius managed to scoop Sniffles up, and shushed him with a gentle finger to the muzzle. An understanding between canine types, perhaps. “Alright, lump. Meadow time for you.” He gave Hermione’s mother a kind of salute. “A pleasure, Phoebe.” He had been adopting this unfailingly cheerful attitude with Hermione’s parents, and Hermione was fairly sure that he was enjoying how it unnerved them.

Phoebe watched him go up the stairs. “Your dog?”

“Yes.”

“What is meadow time?”

“Sirius got bored walking Sniffles. So he built an Extended meadow in one of the upstairs cupboards.” He’d consulted Hermione on some of the charm work, but Phoebe didn’t need to know that.

“I see.” Her mother frowned. “You can tell him, by the way, that Dad and I are happy to accept his help for that furniture run. If you still insist.”

“That’s… gracious of you. Warming up to him finally?”

Phoebe eyed her. “Admitting defeat.” As Hermione lead the way to the kitchen, she thought she heard her mother add in a low tone, “For now.”

—

Less than an hour to the New Year, and Hermione was squished between a noticeably tipsy Neville and Luna, and feeling just about as happy as she ever had. Dorian, who had come along with Luna, had somehow ended up next to Ginny. Hermione had been a bit concerned when he asked the redhead about her plans for her handfasting, but Ginny was only laughing and explaining that those didn’t happen here. She seemed to have accepted the oddness of Luna’s wizard. Granted, it was Luna. Hermione might have been imagining it, but it already seemed to her that there was a newfound lightness to Dorian, in the days since he’d stopped working on the Veil.

“If you would like any help getting your dowry ready,” he was saying to Ginny, beaming, “I’ve got quite a lot of metalwork experience.” He showed her his intricate wand. “I’d be delighted to-”

Whatever he would be delighted to do was interrupted as George plopped onto the ottoman in front of his sister. “Alright. Let’s see the stone.”

Ginny held out her hand to him, and George examined the ring on her finger. “Very shiny. I approve. I’m taking bets, by the way,” and he looked up to address all of them, “on when tonight Mum is going to start crying over how _beautiful_ a couple the two of you are. I, at least, am not sentimental about it. I know you’re just two dripping sacks of hormones. Love is a filthy, filthy thing.” And he patted Ginny’s hand sweetly.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Harry and I are very dignified, thank you. I practically feel like we’re the old married couple already. And—” she shot a mischievous glance at Hermione “—let’s just say that Harry and I might be getting married, but we’re _not_ the ones in our honeymoon phase.”

Hermione turned red as Luna, Neville, and George all looked at her appraisingly. Ron, on Harry’s far side, had turned the color of a tomato as well and seemed to be staring at his shoes.

George was oblivious and grinning, though, as he leaned back towards Ginny. “So that’s how it is, is it? I’ve been dying to know, spill. Are they loud? I bet they’re loud.”

“Judging from the once or twice they’ve been _really_ loud, I think they must use silencing charms a lot.”

“Do you ever hear _barking_?”

Hermione put her head in her hands. “ _George_ , Ginny…”

Even Harry had begun to chuckle, and Hermione couldn’t exactly blame _him_ for wanting a little bit of revenge. “The real problem,” he told George, “is just realizing that it’s not safe to go through any closed doors. Basically anywhere in the house. I walked in on them in the pantry, once.”

“Harry, we were only _kissing_.”

“Tell that to Kreacher. I’m not the only one that was forced to revisit the tattoo on Sirius’s ribcage.”

George was actually rubbing his hands together. “Sirius has a tattoo on his ribcage?”

“The Marauders’ motto,” said Hermione through her hands. “He keeps it glamoured out of sight sometimes.”

George’s eyes had widened. “And he never _told_ me?” He stood up and started to head off. “Sirius! Sirius, you’ve been _hiding_ from me the fact-”

“Why does he hide it?” asked Neville, who seemed to be taking pity and steering her into safer waters, though he also seemed quite honestly curious about Sirius.

“He gets in moods sometimes where he feels like it’s childish. That’s my theory, anyway.”

“See?” said Ginny. “It’s like this all the time. She _theorizes_ about him. He _broods_ over her. That is,” she grinned, “when they’re not going at it like rabbits.”

“Merlin, Ginny,” said Ron in a strangled voice, standing up. “Could you—not? Some of us are trying to keep our dinner down.” He waved a hand at Hermione. “No offense, ‘Mione. It’s just-”

She was already nodding. “None taken. I get it.” And she shot Ginny a solid glare before heading after Ron on his escape route across the library and into the far corner of the party.

She caught up with him and tugged at his arm. He turned, looking surprised.

“Ron. I’m—I wanted to say I’m sorry. That things have been so tense, with us. I miss,” Hermione blinked up at him, “um, just being able to talk. I’m sorry the Sirius stuff was getting rubbed in your face, I hated that.” He still looked so stiff. She cast about for an olive branch. “Would—would you and Gabby like to come to dinner soon? I’d like to meet her. Properly.” She’d let go of his arm.

Ron looked at her for a minute, and then sighed. With a tentativeness that made Hermione sad, somewhere deep down, he pulled her in against his chest for a hug. “That would be nice. Thanks, ‘Mione.”

“Are we good?” She asked it quietly, into his shirt.

“I think we’ll be good.” A pause. “I just—I _really_ don’t want mental images of you and Sirius Black-“

She snorted. “I get it, Ron. If I’m ever told any details of your sex life with Gabby I might have someone Obliviate me.”

He nodded. And then he sighed again. “Bollocks. Mum’s looking at us. Your mum, too. We’d better split before they get excited. Owl me about the dinner, though, yeah?”

Hermione smiled up at him. “Yeah.”

He went one way, and she fled in the other, towards the dessert table. Then she stood lurking by a bookcase eating her éclair, just taking in the party. Her parents and Ron’s had clustered, as per usual, but it was good at least for them to have friends. Bill and Fleur were talking with them; Gabrielle had stayed in Paris to celebrate the New Year with her parents.

On the other side of the room, Hagrid was taking up two thirds of one couch while Andromeda squeezed chummily beside him. They were watching Sirius guide Teddy on a miniature broomstick along a somewhat worrying route around and under tables and eventually in front of the hearth.

There, Victoire, who had been ensconced in toy blocks, became awed at the sight of Teddy’s broomstick. When it was indicated to her that she couldn’t fit on the broomstick, at least not until Teddy was done with it, she began clinging to Sirius’s leg in a pleading protest.

Teddy, meanwhile, began trying to zoom off on his own, so that Sirius had to seize the tail end of the broom.

Hermione almost choked snickering on a bit of éclair as she watched. There was a look of pure panic on Sirius’s face for a moment or two, while one toddler tried to climb his leg and the other tried to pull him over. Andromeda looked like she was going to go rescue him, but Hermione was startled out of paying attention by a familiar throat-clearing by her shoulder.

She turned to look at her mother. Phoebe was also watching the scene at the hearth, with the air of someone just happening to wander by for a casual chat.

“Where’s your little dog?”

“Probably under one of the couches.” Hermione pointed. “That one, I think. He’s timid.”

“Mm. Whose did you say it was, again? Is it all of yours?”

Hermione blinked at her. “What do you mean?”

She raised innocent eyebrows. “What’s going to happen to it when Harry and Ginny get married? Aren’t they moving?”

“Oh. It’s—he’s technically my dog. He’ll stay with me.”

“You decided to get a dog and keep it in someone else’s house?”

Hermione frowned at her. They both knew her mother was poking. “Sirius gave me the dog. So clearly, he was fine with it being in his house.”

“He gave you a dog.”

“Yes.”

Phoebe’s mouth flattened as she watched the circus by the fireplace continue. “Have you ever heard the trope,” she said after a few moments, “that couples get a dog as a test run for having a baby?”

Hermione turned red. “What are you trying to say?” She could hardly bring herself to articulate the question. “That Sirius has some—some _secret_ plot to, what, start a family? Don’t you think I’d sort of have to be in on that, by definition? Or do you—what _do_ you mean?”

Phoebe sniffed. “I wasn’t implying anything.” She waited. “You’re using proper protection, and all that?”

“Jesus Christ, mother. Yes. I’m not going to be springing any surprise grandchildren on you.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes, and straightened Hermione’s necklace. “You’re being overly dramatic, sweetheart. I just want to make sure you know—what you want. And what you’re doing.” She patted some of Hermione’s hair into place. “Now. Where has your father gotten off to?” And she marched off.

Hermione was left confused, irritated, and—eventually—watching Sirius by the fire again. He was sitting with Hagrid, now, drinking firewhiskey. Babysitting duties had apparently been handed off to Fleur. He caught Hermione looking at him and lifted his arm invitingly. She walked over to the couch and settled into the warm space against him, his arm coming around her shoulders. Hagrid still seemed somewhat bemused by their relationship, but he was making the best of it, eyes twinkling with as much friendliness as ever.

As the clock neared midnight, Hermione thought about what her mother had been saying. She was sure Phoebe had been trying to spook her back to reality, but, in the glow of this setting, it was only having the opposite effect. She felt warm and fluttery tucked under Sirius’s arm, and she didn’t even feel particularly guilty when, as everyone began the countdown of the final seconds, her parents saw her decide to stay next to Sirius and ignore their gestures urging her over to them.

Sirius kissed her as the clock chimed midnight, and it was a sweet and gentle kiss by their standards. “Happy New Year, kitten.”

She touched the tip of his nose with her finger, which always made him look a little bit taken aback. Which was adorable. She didn’t know why she was blushing. “Happy New Year.”

Then she did go to hug her parents, and she avoided her mother’s eyes.

And so _what_ if she enjoyed seeing Sirius like this, in the whole family, or with Teddy and Victoire? Approving of the fact that Sirius would _in theory_ make a good dad was simply that—admiration for his good character. A simple personality endorsement. Couldn’t she notice that he was kind, or gentle, or—or how sweet it was that holding Teddy made him stand straighter with a protective kind of pride? Why was that bothering her mother more than Sirius’s _motorcycle?_ It didn’t have anything to do with what stage their relationship was at, or—or whatever else Phoebe might have been trying to stir up. Nosy feeling-stirrer.

And it was all completely unrelated to the fervor with which Hermione pulled Sirius up the stairs and into her bed when all the guests had left. Not that he put up any resistance. He only made a point, as usual, to pick Sniffles up and put him in the hallway before he pushed Hermione back down into the bed.

“There are some things, Hermione, that a small dog can’t unsee.”


	22. Just Like Old Times

Chapter Twenty-Two

Hermione pulled open the front door and raised her eyebrows. “Right on time.”

“Always the tone of surprise.” Ron grinned, and Gabrielle, small and blonde by his shoulder, offered a shy smile as well.

Hermione did her best to beam at them both. “Well, come on in, it’s freezing.” She ushered them in to where Sirius was waiting to take their coats.

He and Ron shook hands with enough awkwardness that Hermione thought even Gabrielle—Gabby, that was—looked pained.

“Good to see you, mate,” tried Ron, rather bravely.

Sirius was saved from having to answer by the sound of a jingling collar, as a small black form trotted around the corner, froze, and began barking furiously at the newcomers. Sirius went to pick him up. “I don’t think you two have met this git, he was hiding at the party. I present… Sniffles.”

Ron lasted a few valiant seconds, and then he was choking with laughter at the expression on Sirius’s face. Gabby, oblivious to the joke, had stepped forward to pet an ecstatic Sniffles on the belly. “Aw, ’e eez _so_ sweet.” She seemed genuinely to mean it, and she offered Hermione another smile when the brown-haired witch moved forward too.

“He is,” Hermione agreed. She had to admit that, on her own, Fleur’s sister seemed to be trying very hard to be nice. “He likes to be scratched behind the ears, like this.”

Sniffles had melted into a puddle of canine bliss in Sirius’s arms, getting equally solicitous care from the women on either side.

Sirius cast a suffering look at Ron. “It’s always like this. One wide-eyed look, and he gets whatever he wants. Any chance one of you ladies would like to hold him? No? I’ll just keep standing here, don’t mind me.”

Ron grinned. “I was going to say it’s dogs, but given present company… it’s the cuteness factor, I guess.” He indicated Hermione and Gabby. “They’re powerless.”

Sirius shook his head. “You don’t understand. Kreacher has started cooking him bacon.”

“No. Really?”

“The dog, Ron. Fresh bacon.”

Ron ran a hand through his hair. “Blimey. Much more than I rated, isn’t it?”

“You don’t have tiny, floppy ears, Ron,” said Hermione.

“No,” agreed Gabby in a coo. “’E doesn’t, does ‘e? Not like zese leetle ears ‘eere, _oh que c’est mignon…_ ”

“Right.” Sirius pulled the dog away. “I’m moving to the kitchen, where the food is. And I’m taking the little ears with me. Ron, come say hi to Harry.”

Hermione followed the others towards the kitchen, feeling less nervous with every step. This was what family felt like. This was Ron. She shouldn’t have worried.

Harry greeted both of the newcomers warmly; he and Gabby had known each other ever since the Triwizard Tournament, Hermione remembered, which might go some way towards explaining the subtly stiff way that Ginny was treating the other girl. Once they were all sitting down, though, Harry gamely marched on, asking Gabby how her studies at Beauxbatons were going. It came out that Gabby was quite a serious Quidditch player, and a Seeker to boot. Before long, everyone except Hermione and Kreacher were deep in an animated Quidditch discussion, and even Ginny seemed to have melted a bit in the face of the French witch’s obviously genuine enthusiasm.

It was also hard not to see how Ron smiled when Gabby looked at him. Like he was standing in the sunshine, and all was right in his world. It was such an easy smile.

Ron helped Hermione clear the dishes at the end of the meal, and even Kreacher backed off to let them rinse the bowls together. They worked in a companionable silence until Hermione leaned over to nudge Ron’s arm with her own. “I like Gabby, Ron. I think she seems really lovely.”

His blue eyes were searching, before his face broke out in a tentative smile. “Thanks. I’m—really glad to hear that. I—” he seemed to be stumbling around for the right words, but he settled on, “—I’m happy to see you happy, ‘Mione. Too. Never mind what happened at the New Years party.”

“Absolutely never mind it,” Hermione agreed, blushing down into the sink.

And then, before she quite knew it, they were done with the dishes and rejoining reality with the others in the library.

Ron went to give Gabby a hand up from the couch. “Hate to skip out, but we should get back to George’s. He gets cranky when we wake him up late. He’s mad old now, haven’t you heard?” He only grinned when Sirius gave him a flat look.

“You’re not staying at the Burrow?” asked Hermione.

Ron rolled his eyes a bit. “Didn’t want to set Mum loose on Gabby. I love the woman. But she can spend some time bugging Percy and Bill for a change.”

“Just,” murmured Gabby, “exactly what my seester loves.” And she patted Ron on the arm with a brilliant smile.

…

An arm came sliding over and around Hermione’s waist, and she put her book down on the bed beside her, looking over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

Sirius looked back at her, smirked, and pulled her closer, away from her book. He was wrapping his arms around her as if he intended to hug her in against him until she disappeared between him and the duvet. He didn’t stop until she was squeaking with laughter, half-trying to push him off. He countered this with the utterly shameless tactic of letting his arms go loose and just nuzzling in against her neck, moving his lips gently against the skin beneath her ear.

She stopped squirming. “You’re the worst.”

She felt him smile. “Flatterer.” He brought his head up to lean against hers, though, apparently content to just hold her here. “How are you feeling? About tonight, the stuff with Ron?”

A soft smile tugged at her mouth. “Good, actually.” She looked sideways at him. “You? How are you feeling about the stuff with Ron?”

This got him up onto an elbow to look down at her, grey eyes moving across her face. She loved the way the grey eyes crinkled, when she ran delicate fingers along his forehead, tucking rebellious black strands out of the way.

“Good,” he said finally. “If you’re good.”

Hermione was looking at the way the light landed in his silver irises, the hollow of his throat, here so close to her own skin. And while she was feeling warm and close and comfortable, she decided to seize her courage, run with it, and _pry_. “Sirius,” she began, and she could tell from the lines of wary amusement that seized his face that he had caught onto her tone. _Well, fine_. “Do _you_ have any exes?”

He flopped down beside her, on a long sigh. “No. And yes. I never dated anyone… seriously. Not really. The longest was Marlene McKinnon for about a month, but we broke up at Hogwarts. And she died eons ago, of course. Before Lily and James. So I was never really,” his eyes had shifted to the side, “in a proper relationship. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Hermione took all of this in, and she curled her arms around her pillow, trying not to bat her eyelashes. She was feeling oddly catlike. “And now?”

“Now what?”

“Now are you in—in a-”

“In a proper relationship?” He was half-amused, half-outraged, and he pulled the pillow away from her entirely and threw it off the bed before he rolled over to pin her down under him. “Yes, now. Idiot. What else do I have to do, write you poetry?”

She stifled a giggle. “Please don’t. Sorry. I just don’t like to assume. But—why now? Why… me?”

He looked her in the eyes for a moment, and then he began a row of slow, savoring kisses from her throat up to her ear that left her dizzy. “You mean,” he murmured against the ear, “apart from our absurd chemistry?”

Hermione decided to ignore the way the whisper traveled through her whole body, leaving parts of her tingling. He was _deflecting_. She slid her hands up to push his hair back and brought his face to hers. He blinked at her with a half-merry obstinacy. “You’re allowed to include that,” she told him. “But that can’t be all of it. We don’t spend _all_ of our time in bed.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “That could be renegotiated.”

She gave him a flat look. She could feel him leaning into her, pushing his luck. A confidence at the corner of his mouth, and she knew, she _knew_ how soft that curve of his lip was—but no. They might be well on their way to messing around, but she wasn’t letting him flirt his way out of this. “Sirius. I’ve been _wondering_.”

He let his breath out slowly, eyes boring into hers, for all the world like a great frustrated dog. Finally, he leaned his forehead against hers, his hair falling down around their faces. It was nothing but his mouth close to hers, and his long eyelashes, for he wasn’t meeting her eyes. “Fine. Why you? Because you’re stubborn as hell. And brilliant. And—safe. I don’t think you’re scaring easily, any time soon. Which,” he made an odd face, “at this point counts for something. Also. You’re just so ticklish. I can’t resist a woman who squirms like this, the second I-”

“Stop!” she shrieked. “Fine! You win! You win.” She seized his face in her hands and began kissing him frantically, if only to make him stop _tickling_. “I love you—I love you—I’ll stop making you tell me why you love me. Just—come _here-_ ” She began pulling at his boxers.

He was deflecting her hand, and she could feel him smirking against her mouth. He resurfaced enough to murmur, “What? What do you want?”

“I want _you_ , you monster.”

“No poetry? I could serenade, if it really-”

She grabbed fistfuls of his hair, and he narrowed smug silver eyes down at her. “Sirius Black. If you say one more word about poetry instead of properly fucking me…”

She knew he had a weakness for when she used expletives, but she could tell from the gleam in his eye an instant later that she hadn’t quite won. He cleared his throat. “One more word about poetry?”

“I-” She tried to reach for her wand, but he grabbed her hand. And then, without altogether too much more delay, he did properly fuck her. So she eventually forgave his cheek.

…

Hermione woke sooner than she expected. She was lying in a sweaty sprawl, and her heart, she found, was suddenly pounding. Sirius was just now sitting up beside her in the dark, and he touched her arm. “Did you—”

Then they heard it again, and Sirius was already lighting his wand. Someone was pounding on something—a door? A wall?—downstairs, and a voice was shouting, “HARRY! HERMIONE!”

Hermione was out of bed and grabbing her nightgown, throwing Sirius his shirt. Gooseflesh had prickled up on her arms. Her feeling that the voice sounded like Ron was confirmed when a silvery terrier burst through the door and Ron’s voice said much closer, “Bring your bag and your wand, Hermione, there’s something wrong with George—I’m in the kitchen—” And then the dog was leaping out the door again.

Sniffles was distraught by this apparition. Sirius, a flash of pity on his face, stupefied the little dog and set him in the middle of the bed before following Hermione out.

They clattered downstairs to find Harry and Ginny, pale as the sleep left their faces, standing before the fireplace with Gabby and a grim-faced Ron. Ron whirled to Hermione as soon as she entered the room, and she almost took a step back at the look in his eyes. “Hermione. There’s something weird happening. George got back—just now, super late. We left him there, he—” Ron searched for the words, fear flooding his expression, and Hermione was thinking suddenly and painfully of Fred. “—he wasn’t George,” Ron finished.

“What?” said Harry. “Polyjuice?”

Ron shook his head. “No, no—it’s him. At least, I don’t—could it be Polyjuice? How would you tell?” His wide eyes were back on Hermione. “He was speaking another _language_ , Hermione. Why would someone Polyjuice themself to just go to George’s house and do that?”

Hermione’s mouth was dry. “Another language?”

Gabby spoke up. “French.” Her eyes were wide. “At least—I recognized some of ze words. I think it was very old. ‘E told us ‘is name was not George, that it was Guillaume.”

The bottom was falling out of Hermione’s stomach. She strode towards the fireplace, and grabbed the pot of floo powder. She looked at the others. “I—I’m not sure I can tell you yet where I’m going. I might be wrong. But I’ll be back right away.” Then she tossed a pinch of the powder, and stepped into the flames.

Within a quarter hour, she emerged from the fireplace again and into the kitchen. The lights had been turned on; everyone had gotten properly dressed, and Kreacher had made them strong tea. Hermione met Ron’s eyes, knowing he could see the dawning dread in hers, and she stepped to the side.

Dorian and Luna emerged from the fireplace on her heels.

“Well?” said Harry, standing up. His wand was in his hand, as if he might spring into action already.

“Tell them, Dorian.” Hermione pushed the sandy-haired wizard forward. She was trying hard to maintain her sympathy for him, but it was fast being outpaced by her fear.

Dorian looked around—avoided Ron’s eyes, flinched before Sirius’s. “Priscille is gone. I checked. Guillaume—you’re _sure_ it was Guillaume?”

“Yes,” said Gabby. She was standing straighter, holding Ron’s hand hard.

Dorian looked terrified. “That was Priscille’s husband. I—I do not know what her plan is. But-” He turned to Hermione. “She _mustn’t_ go to the Veil. I do not think it is finished enough, but—but I also did not think she would do something like—whatever she has done—”

“The Veil?” Harry’s voice cut, sharp, through Dorian’s babbling.

Hermione’s mouth tightened—she shouldn’t speak, but didn’t some situations outweigh the rules?—but before she could answer, it was Sirius who opened his mouth. “Yes,” he said simply. “That Veil. And—” His eyes slid around the kitchen, landing on everyone in turn. “Unless I’m wildly mistaken, I think we’re going back.”

“Back?” said Luna. Her voice was quiet, as if something in her was trying to fold up and hide. She wasn’t letting it, but the effort showed. “Is it—is the situation urgent? Dorian, what’s _happening_ to George? What’s Priscilla going to do?”

He was gripping his cloak hard, his knuckles white, as if it might anchor him. “I don’t know, Luna. I don’t _know_. But—but if it is like last time, somebody might die. And—I doubt that that person will be Priscille.”

Ginny stood up hard enough that her chair crashed to the floor. “I’ll tell you what I _know_. I know that _I’m_ not about to let your _evil_ sister kill my brother. So—what’s next? Do we rouse the Ministry?” She was looking at Harry, and at Hermione.

It was Sirius who spoke up. “I think these two _are_ the Ministry. Who else are they going to send in, at three in the morning, on the word of a confused foreigner and a Weasley who maybe had a nightmare? No offense, Ron—I believe you, but the Ministry isn’t so known for their fact-checking and sympathy.”

Ron only nodded.

Harry moved to stand beside Ginny. “Right. We’re the task force. Like old times. Except no dying.” He might have been trying for lightness, but the joke came out with all the strain of their situation. He looked at Hermione. “Just tell us where to go.”


	23. Through the Veil

Chapter Twenty-Three

It was a nightmare that Hermione had had many times. The elevator, dark at night. The black tile hallway. The smooth ring of doors, giving nothing away. All of it, all over again, and she worried already that Sirius was too quiet behind her. Glances at him, as they hurried through the dimness, showed a face like stone. But he took her hand, at one point, and held it.

Some things were different this time. The Department knew them. Doors opened for Hermione and for Luna, as if hurrying them along. The soft sighs that Hermione was accustomed to were gone—the walls themselves, perhaps, holding their breath.

The door to the Hall of Death was sealed. Hermione tried a number of opening charms on it, then looked at Dorian. He raised his wand, looking pale but determined. Several spells later, though, he was beginning to look queasy. “She—I am not sure what she has done, but-”

“Can you undo it?” Sirius’s voice was curt.

Dorian swallowed. “Maybe. With time.”

Sirius looked at Hermione, raising an eyebrow, and Harry muttered, “Unless someone’s got a time-turner…”

Hermione shook her head. “We’ll try through one of the other Halls. Dorian—can she have locked them all?”

He was biting his lip. “Not—without great cost.”

“Then let’s go,” rasped Ginny. Her face was bloodless, and Ron was gripping her hard by the arm.

Hermione nodded. “Let’s hurry. Keep up.”

A different door swung open at her glance, and they were off, swift through the darkness of the Hall of Time, and pounding down the long rows of the Hall of Prophecy. Harry’s eyes showed white around the edges, in the eerie light. Then they were in the brain room, and Hermione threw up an arm to slow the others as they moved, cautiously, to the far end. An odd, violet-tinged glow showed under the door. They could hear muffled voices—Priscilla, certainly. And a man.

After a whispered conference, it was decided that Hermione and Dorian would go first, under Harry’s invisibility cloak. They would see what they could gather of the situation.

The door wasn’t locked beyond a simple charm. Priscilla had been counting, it seemed, on delay. Harry pushed the door ever so gently open for them, and then he crouched in the opening, covering them with his wand as Hermione and Dorian crept forward to the edge of the first great stone tier. Sirius had tried to join Harry, a sort of snarl building in his expression, but Ron and Luna had pulled him back to stand with Ginny. The red-haired witch was practically vibrating with fury, and urging her to keep her calm seemed to bring Sirius back to himself.

The figures below had all of their attention focused on each other, and on the platform before them. Priscilla, slim and straight-backed in the white dress that she had first appeared in. And George. He held himself strangely—leaning, like a flower towards Priscilla’s sun. His familiar striped shirt was torn, and blood dripped down his forearm, though he appeared otherwise unharmed. Priscilla’s left arm bore a mirroring wound, bloody from elbow to wrist. And in the faint purple light that pervaded the room, her bone wand shone smeared with crimson. Gooseflesh was rising on Hermione’s skin, as she thought of another wound on an arm—Harry’s, as he lay tied to a gravestone—to work the darkest kind of magic.

And dark magic, Hermione had no doubt, was already at work here. The Veil was alive. More than it had been since Luna destroyed it. Perhaps more, even, than it had been before that. The curtain hung torn to the side, a limp and motionless shroud. And through the arch there now boiled a purest darkness. It wasn’t a void—that darkness was far from empty. Hermione could tell, because every step that she and Dorian had taken further into the room, a feeling of _presence_ had sunk its claws a little bit deeper into her. The Veil knew they were there, even if Priscilla didn’t. And it wanted them. Wanted them to share some of that roiling inside it, weeping and biting and eyelids fluttering with ecstasy, beckoning at the edge of her mind. She knew that darkness, from the day she had stepped through the arch, and so she crouched now, and steeled herself against it.

Dorian almost took a step forward, but at her tug on his cloak, he came back to himself. He crouched beside her. “It is strong,” he murmured.

“She finished it on her own.”

Hermione hadn’t phrased it like a question, but to her surprise, Dorian tilted his head. “No,” he breathed. “It is not finished yet.”

“Is that what they’re arguing about?”

Priscilla and—and whoever this not-George was were growing heated, flinging phrases back and forth in a harsh, guttural kind of French. Hermione heard them both saying the name “Guillaume.”

Dorian’s brows had come together. “Yes and no,” he whispered. “Let’s get back.” It was as if his words were prophetic, for Priscilla was gesturing wide around the chamber now, and threatened any moment to follow her arms with her gaze. “It’s not safe.”

They shuffled back, and Harry slid the door shut again on their heels.

Dorian stood up more slowly than Hermione, looking around at everyone. “The—the good thing,” he said, “is that Priscille thinks George is not Guillaume. She was saying that whatever she did, it didn’t really work. That is why they are arguing. George says he is Guillaume. Priscille says he isn’t really, and that Guillaume must come out of the Veil, from death.” He swallowed. “The trouble is that the Veil doesn’t-”

“Hold on, hold on,” said Ron. “It’s still George in there? Or is it not?”

“I think,” said Hermione heavily, “that I can answer this part.” Even Dorian looked at her. “I’m fairly sure, at this point, that Priscilla cast on George the same spell that I used on my parents. To turn them into other people, and then to remake them as themselves. I—it never occurred to me that my research could have anything to do with her.” She was looking at Ron, then at Ginny. “I’m—I’m so sorry. So, no. He’s not George. But I think I can fix him. I did… fix my parents.”

“So what are we waiting for?” said Ron, taking a step towards the door.

“ _Wait_.” Dorian’s voice was almost a hiss. “If we go in there, we may be giving Priscille exactly what she wants.” Everybody stopped moving, and he lowered his hands. “Priscille thinks the Veil is a simple portal to death, she has never—” He shook his head. “That’s not important. What is important is that Priscille knows what the Veil needs to work properly. She cannot enter it to be with—with the dead, and the dead cannot have a life within it, unless she gives the Veil a life in exchange.” He flinched at their expressions. “It is very dark magic. I—there was a reason I pushed Priscille in, all that time ago.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Right now, she does not want to send George into the Veil. I think she wants Guillaume to come out and—and perhaps to inhabit George in some way. I do not think she is thinking rationally. But she will want to sacrifice someone else—” he gestured around at them all, “—in George’s place. That is probably why she has delayed here this long.”

“Who,” asked Luna, “did Priscilla sacrifice last time?”

Dorian closed his eyes, and some small force that had been left in him drained before their eyes. “Her baby.” He wouldn’t look at any of them. “She had some thought, I think, of… giving him to his father. The child’s life for the parent’s. It was—powerful. Horrible. Her twisted idea of love.” He shuddered, and added, “That was… what you killed, Luna. Barely a life, anymore. But it gave the Veil its life.”

Hermione was looking at Harry, whose eyes were widening as he took in what was surely almost inconceivable to him—Harry, in whose veins a parent’s self-sacrifice ran with the blood. “And if,” he asked Dorian, knuckles white on his wand, “we don’t go in? What does she do if we leave her with time?”

Dorian’s eyes flitted to the door. “I—I can’t say. Perhaps she will flee. Perhaps she will try to offer George after all, and pass into the Veil herself. Perhaps-”

“ _No._ ” It was Ginny, her fingers digging into Harry’s arm. “Not George. There are eight of us. We can take a dark witch.”

Ron stepped up beside her and nodded, once. He seemed beyond words. Hermione knew the expression on his face. They were going into the Hall of Death.

“Alright,” she said, raising her wand. “We get George. And we—” her eyes slid past Dorian, “—we take out Priscilla if we can. But be _careful_. The Veil is alive. Whatever you do, don’t go towards it.”

They nodded. Took a deep breath. Wands rose. Then the door crashed open at Harry’s spell, and they were hurtling into the Hall of Death.

They arrayed themselves naturally in a half-circle on the highest row, and Priscilla and George had spun to look up at them like trapped animals. But beyond Hermione, the others were collapsing oddly, some sinking to their knees, others skidding to the utmost edge of the stone.

Their eyes were drawn helplessly to the Veil. Hermione felt it too. Here, it seemed to say. Here is that thing that you have been missing, that terrible hole that gapes inside you. I have it just in here. Come see…

“Stay back!” Hermione shouted, and people paired off, holding each other steady. Luna and Dorian, crouched and pale. Harry and Ginny, both refusing to bend as they stared down the witch below.

Priscilla raised her arms, and she smiled. “ _My friends_.” Sirius zapped a curse at her and she flicked it away with barely a glance. “Don’t be angry. You don’t understand.”

“I think you’re the one that doesn’t fucking understand,” offered Ron. “You’re _insane_.” His wand was raised, but his arm seemed to be shaking in the Veil’s influence. Priscilla simply stepped to the side to dodge his jinx.

“Poor boy.” Her voice was rich with sympathy. “You don’t _want_ to stop my work. Let me show you.” She stepped up onto the platform, and, as they looked on in horror, she ground her forearm across the side of the archway’s stone. It left a smear of blood, black in the light. “A gift,” said Priscilla, but they were no longer looking at her.

The darkness in the Veil had begun to move. It swirled, grew lighter, and larger. They realized, at length, that a figure was approaching as it coalesced. Then it stepped out of the arch, shimmering with a faint haze, and red hair came into focus. A familiar, crooked grin. George. Then he tilted his head, holding his shoulders at a certain angle, and the bottom of Hermione’s stomach fell out.

Not George. _Fred_.

He took several steps around George, eyeing his twin. Then he put a hand up to George’s cheek. “Not in there, are you?” His voice was kind, and he just patted George a couple of times. “Don’t worry, I know where to find you.” The same old mischief was filling his face. “Hold tight.”

Then he turned to the stone rows, looked up, and began to climb. He was making for Ron. Ron’s freckles were standing out against his skin, his whole expression drained. He was pushing Gabby back behind him, and he leaned down to whisper something urgent to her. She tried to shake her head, but he made a fierce gesture. She nodded, and then she was skittering back and out of the Hall, her footsteps fading. Hermione hoped he’d sent her for help.

Ginny and Harry had closed ranks with Ron. Fred stood level with them now, hands on his hips, grinning. There was something awful about that. It was so purely him, so painfully just the way he’d held himself—there were tears streaking down Ginny’s cheeks.

Fred tilted his head. “Aw, c’mon, Gin. Don’t cry, I’m right here. I’ve been here the whole time, you just couldn’t see me.”

“ _Stop it_ ,” said Ron. “Leave her alone.”

Fred looked at him, and there was something like hurt in his not-quite-solid eyes. “I wouldn’t lie to her. Not about this. Not you, either. I can show you.” He took a step back down, towards the Veil. “Look, you want to save George, right?” He nodded at his once-twin. “Give him more time out here? I’ll tell you,” and his smile bloomed again, “it doesn’t make that much difference, on this end. But if it’s him or you, this is the chance. This is it.” He held a hand up to his siblings. “Come with me. Either one of you. It’ll be us. Dumbledore, Moody. Everyone you could want.” He shrugged. “And we’ll wait for everyone else who’s a little late.”

Ginny’s face was crumpled. “ _Get away_ ,” she choked out, “ _from my brother._ ”

Fred’s eyebrows came down and he opened his mouth to speak, but Harry was raising his wand. A white stag burst forth, charging at Fred and then lapping the room to dissipate. It left a streaky afterglow in Hermione’s vision.

Fred had raised his arms a bit at the stag, startled, but now he looked amused. “Harry. I’m made of love. Why would your Patronus bother me?”

“You’re not-” Harry began, but, with a wobble, Ron took a step down to the next row. Closer to Fred. Closer to the Veil.

“ _No!”_ Ginny followed him, even as Hermione and the others set off running for their side of the Hall. Ginny was pulling on Ron’s arm, trying to hold him back as he strained towards the center. Tears were pouring down his face, but he was smiling. Fred was smiling back.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” shouted Sirius. Ron crumpled to the ground. There was a hiss from below, and then spells were flying at them—not just from Priscilla, but from George as well.

The fight was on. Hermione saw Dorian go down quickly to one of Priscilla’s spells, and she could only hope that he wasn’t dead as she fired counter-spells at George. If they could take either person below out of commission—

A shout from Harry drew her attention. In the chaos, Ginny was now halfway down to the arch. She was hand-in-hand with Fred, her face determined.

Hermione leapt down—not Ginny, she’d get her back—but the power of the Veil on the next row hit her like a wave. Harry and Sirius clearly felt the same; they had tried to follow Ginny as well and fallen to their knees. Still, Harry was crawling for the next row. Luna raced back and forth on the highest row still, trying to shield them from the rain of spells.

Hermione was awash in her fight against the Veil. The same images as before—her heart’s desires, her greatest fears. Cajoling and cautioning, with one message—closer, closer, here is the place you must be. She struggled to her feet, began pushing herself back up and away. She had fought this kind of feeling before. The others hadn’t.

Or at least, most of them hadn’t. “ _Ginny!_ ” It was Sirius, hoarse as he tried to hold himself in place, firing hexes indiscriminately towards the pair below. “ _Ginny, transform! You won’t feel so much as an animal!_ ”

Ginny turned her head, eyes wide with fear. Then her red hair was a tossing mane, and she was rearing with a neigh that split the air. Harry followed a moment later, antlers swinging as they galloped back for the top. They circled there, dodging spells and looking, apparently, for an opening to get down towards George.

Fred was left alone, looking up at all of them. His face full of disappointment, he turned slowly and, after seeming to think, went to hug George. The man who looked like George allowed it, and as he awkwardly patted Fred’s back, the apparition slowly faded.

Hermione thought, for a moment then, that they had escaped the Veil’s trap. Priscilla’s teeth were bared, and Hermione and the witch hurled spells back and forth at lightning speed. A small cry, and Luna fell to one of George’s spells. Hermione and Sirius had closed ranks on the second row. They were now the only ones left wielding wands, though every now and then Harry or Ginny flickered back to cast a shield or fire a spell.

It was around then that two more figures stepped out of the Veil, and everything else in the room gradually came to a halt. Gooseflesh rose on Hermione’s arms.

James Potter stood on the dais. Beside him stood Remus Lupin. And they were looking up at Sirius.

Hermione moved to shield Sirius, firing a few spells down more or less at random while he stood stricken. Her spells seemed to do nothing to the apparitions. The two men were walking up to Sirius, just as Fred had done, and Hermione couldn’t help the way each of their words sank into her like needles.

“Sirius,” said Remus, in his gentle voice. “You’ve been living on borrowed time. You know, I think, that it should be over.”

James had a light in his face, a fire Hermione had often seen in Sirius. “Don’t tell me you don’t miss us. Wouldn’t you _rather_ be with us? Honestly? Beyond?” His eyes flickered over the room—Hermione, Harry. “Harry’s got this, I know he does. He doesn’t need you. None of them really do. But we might. And what are you holding yourself back for? Middle-age? You’re going to, what, Padfoot, go grey and live every day like you’re half-dead until you’re full-dead?” There was a smile playing around his face, as if he knew he’d won.

“Stuff it,” managed Sirius. “You’re not real.” He was standing where his arm could touch Hermione’s back; she felt him leaning into her.

James laughed, as if he found this genuinely funny. “Sure, I’m an evil illusion. That’s why I know about that time we used the invisibility cloak to follow Snivellus through the library and enchant every book he was opening to moan loudly and compliment his fingers, or the time you swore you were going to eat pineapple at every meal for a month because Daisy Fulton said she’d-”

Remus put a restraining hand on James’s shoulder, and then looked up. “Sirius. How is my son?”

Sirius had blanched. He shot Hermione an agonized look.

“Change,” she told him.

He crouched and leapt away as a dog. He could go to help Harry and Ginny, still dodging in and out of human form above. The best they could do was distract and try not to get themselves hurt.

Hermione was alone.

Remus looked up at her, nodded gently, and faded. James stayed staring for a moment. “You’re a good friend,” he said finally. “And a good witch, Hermione Granger. Don’t trap him.” Then he faded as well.

_I’m not trapping him_ , thought Hermione. _He’s free, he’s himself, I just—love him—_ but she didn’t say anything.

The darkness in the Veil was moving again. And aside from the occasional spell to keep the others back, Priscilla was stepping back to give whoever this was their space.

As they began to get closer, Hermione understood.

But George was fading. He had grown grey over the battle—each new apparition seemed to take something from him. He still stood, but just barely, eyes glittering and not himself. So Hermione had no choice; flight was not an option. She would have to stay human Hermione, her knotted self, no matter what happened. It was up to her to stop this, and if she could only have the time to _think_ about what Dorian had said, how the Veil had worked and had ended last time, Priscilla and that poor child—but there was no time for waiting and thinking. The shreds of an idea that she had would have to do. And, at the very worst, she would be the one to disappear into the dark.

She lowered her wand, and her parents stepped out of the archway.

Hermione was shaking her head. “No. My parents are alive.”

Priscilla smiled sadly up at her. “Hermione. Don’t lie, when we are the two who know the truth. Those people are not your parents any more than this,” she gestured at George, “is Guillaume. Your parents are gone. Or—” she looked to the side, “—they were.”

Phoebe and Mark Granger looked up at their daughter. Mark held out his arms. There were tears in both of their eyes. “Owlet,” he said, “please, it’s us.”

“Hermione,” her mother managed, “I’ve—missed you.” And then her face was crumpling as she leaned into Mark’s shoulder.

The terrible thing was that it threatened to speak to a truth inside of Hermione. The Veil whispered around the edge of her mind, pressing at her vulnerabilities, illuminating her darknesses.

A part of her _did_ know that the people she had been seeing and loving for months were not her parents. And love looked up at her, arms outstretched. Her face wooden, Hermione stepped down onto the next row. Her heart was pounding.

There was a scuffle behind her, and Sirius’s voice: “Hermione, _no!_ ”

Quick as a snake, Priscilla fired a spell, and there was a thud. Hermione turned to see Sirius sprawled, dark hair fanning around his head, and an icy fear seized her. He wasn’t moving. An instant later, Harry was at his side, crouching into human form and feeling desperately at his godfather’s wrist. Hermione couldn’t see his face clearly, but then Ginny was back again too, shouting something.

George and Priscilla seized their moment, and Harry and Ginny went down too, bound with ropes.

Hermione turned to face the Veil, and her parents. She continued her descent.

As her feet reached the ground at the very bottom of the Hall, she felt in her bones how much this room was a theater. An attention focused down on her, from all those empty stone rows—ancient, fascinated. Most of all, the Veil before her thrummed through her very being. Those she had missed were _just_ on the other side, she knew they were—knew it like she knew how to breathe. Her childhood, her fantasies, her hopes for the future; anything and everything stretched for her beyond that thin dark.

She let her parents hug her, holding her close and tight. The texture of her father’s coat was familiar, and her mother smelled exactly as her mother should. Hermione was crying.

“You’ll come with us?” Phoebe asked, holding Hermione’s face gently, and looking into her eyes.

Hermione nodded. Phoebe kissed her on the forehead, and released her.

“We’ll go first, then, owlet. See you on the other side.” Mark’s whole face crinkled with his smile.

Hermione couldn’t speak, so she nodded again. Priscilla had come to stand beside Hermione, and she put a hand on her back, rubbing softly—in the guise, maybe, of comfort. But with her other hand, she grasped Hermione’s wand and pulled it from stiff fingers.

Hermione let her. There was no way she would be able to stop her, this close.

“Thank you, Hermione,” breathed Priscilla. “You cannot know how much this means to me.”

“I—I think I can,” Hermione managed, tilting her head. She turned towards George. Guillaume. She should own up to that, at this point. “I’m—I’d like to say goodbye.”

Priscilla nodded permission.

Looking a bit perplexed, but sympathetic, Guillaume held out his arms as Hermione moved in to hug him fiercely. She buried her face in his neck. And while she was there, she whispered a couple of the things that she hadn’t had a chance to say. His hands tightened on her back, for a moment. But then he let her go, and offered her a hand up onto the dais.

His face was remote and handsome and full, now, of pain.

“Thank you,” Hermione said.

He nodded. Then he offered Priscilla a hand up, and followed her onto the dais himself.

The three of them approached the Veil.

Hermione moved to stand right in front of it. The blackness roiled and moved here, as if it might leak out to touch her face. It was almost as if a wind blew, into that space beyond.

Priscilla stood beside her, and put a hand on her arm. “You are doing a wonderful thing, Hermione. I will come right behind you. We will. We will all be together. You see, this is not so terrible a thing.” She was smiling as if she could see what lay beyond the blackness.

Guillaume stood behind her, and he wrapped his arms around her. They fit together, like a storybook couple, and Priscilla leaned into him with a look of happiness that Hermione had never before seen. He kissed the side of her head, softly.

Then his hands settled on the sides of her arms, and tightened. And he _pushed_.

It took a moment, for the white of Priscilla’s dress to be swallowed by the blackness.


	24. Ever After

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Well. This seems disturbingly familiar.” Sirius’s voice was hoarse from disuse, and as he pushed himself up onto his elbows, the floral hospital robe threatened to slip from one shoulder.

Hermione, sitting on the edge of his bed, straightened it and then let her hands linger, just resting on his shoulder. He was warm and solid. “You hit your head pretty badly. You should be good now, though. Or,” the corner of her mouth curved, “as good as you ever are.”

He rolled his eyes, but he was also finding her hand and twining his fingers into hers. “There’s only so much we can expect of St. Mungo’s. Priscilla got me?”

“Yes. She’s gone.”

His eyes narrowed. “Dead?”

“That’s… a bit of a story.”

He scooted over, and lifted the edge of his blanket. “Come tell me.”

Hermione grinned. “Instantly needy.” But she shifted up and snuggled in under his arm, tugging the hospital robe into place again where it had slipped. “This is really quite a look on you.”

“I make anything fashion. Is George alright?”

“He should be. I’ve been working with the Weasleys on, um, rewiring him. I’m set to go cast the final spell later today. But they were waking you up. So I wanted to be here.”

“Mm. Good.” His lips pressed briefly to the side of her head, and Hermione was beginning to suspect that he was still just slightly loopy on whatever pain potions they had been giving him. “Now tell me the Priscilla story.”

Her smile faded a bit at that. “She went through the Veil. George pushed her. Guillaume, really. Once I’d told him what Priscilla had done to their child, I think he knew she needed to be stopped. Though we couldn’t get him to say very much after that.” Dorian had tried.

Sirius’s eyebrows had lowered. “So she _is_ dead?”

“No. Just trapped. Turns out the Veil doesn’t lead to death at all.”

“Well that’s—wait, _what?_ ”

Hermione grinned at his expression. “If you think _you’re_ frustrated, you can’t imagine my Department. But yeah. Apparently Dorian wanted to tell us, there at the end, but there wasn’t time. It was never a portal to death at all. Just a kind of—mirror, if you will, of what Death is imagined to be. Hopes and fears and all that. That’s why it was trying so hard to feed off of our emotions and energy, when Priscilla was trying to finish it. It needed something to build its idea of Death out of.”

Sirius was frowning. “Al… right. Dorian knew this the _whole time?_ ”

Hermione nodded ruefully. “But Priscilla didn’t. He was afraid of what she might do if she found out. She threatened him, the first time, to make him build her a way into Death. I honestly think he’s _still_ terrified of her, even though he knows she’s trapped. I can’t imagine what she did when they were children. Or in the Veil, when they were stuck together.”

“Merlin. So they were stuck together, inside an _idea_ of Death, for centuries?”

“An idea of Death fueled by the unformed mind of a baby, plus whatever it drew from the two of them.” Hermione leaned her head in closer onto his shoulder. “I think you’re all lucky to have made it back out at all.”

“Blimey. Why not just make her an actual portal? Sounds like she was torturing him enough, couldn’t he have just let her die?”

Hermione grimaced. “He doesn’t know how to. He says he thinks it isn’t possible. To actually access Death. That you could maybe glimpse it, but that reaching across the divide isn’t… ‘meant to be.’ For the living.” She bit her lip. “Harry didn’t disagree. Interestingly. I thought he might know. If anyone would.”

Sirius was silent for a few moments. “So. Those… those visions we saw. The, um, people. Not ghosts?”

Hermione found his hand and squeezed it. “Not ghosts. Not spirits. Nothing more than illusions that the Veil built out of our own hearts and minds.”

“Ah.” He let out a long breath. “I don’t know if that’s exactly better.” Hermione could guess what he was thinking. James Potter’s words echoed in her mind too— _You’re going to what, live every day like you’re half-dead until you’re full-dead?_

She didn’t let go of his hand. “It is better. At least a bit. It—it means our memories of them aren’t spoiled. And that they could be thinking anything, wherever they are, regardless of what we’re afraid of.”

His hand tightened on her arm. “Your parents…”

“Those weren’t my parents. That should have made me realize, about the Veil. My parents aren’t dead.” She tilted her head, looked up into his concerned eyes. “They’re at home in their flat. They’re irritating, and imperfect, and I love them. And they’re all the parents I’ve got.”

He folded his arms around her, warm and close. “I’m… glad.” He was being uncharacteristically quiet, just holding her, running his fingers through her hair. After a few moments, he spoke again. “I… want you to know that it must have been fears. That the visions were talking about, I mean, for me. I don’t actually believe those things.”

Hermione nodded against his chest. “I know.”

“No, you—” he seemed frustrated, and he tilted her chin up to find her eyes. “I mean it, you ninny. James tried to scare me about some half-life. But I’ve never— never—” his eyelashes fluttered, as if he was struggling to get the earnest emotion out, and for the first time in her life, Hermione was fairly certain that Sirius Black was starting to blush. “…never felt more alive,” he finished, and glared at her, as if well aware that his face was turning pink.

Beaming like, indeed, a ninny, Hermione took him by the ears and was kissing him before he could quite manage to say anything else.

The shadow of a mediwitch walking past in the hallway brought them to their senses some minutes later, and Hermione sat back more decorously against Sirius’s side. The blush had now distinctly migrated to her.

Sirius had leaned his head on the top of hers, a contented sort of humming sound coming from somewhere deep in his chest.

Hermione giggled.

“What?”

“It’s almost like you’re purring.”

“They’ve got me on a lot of pain potions, I think.”

“I can tell.”

“Feel a bit like I’m floating, actually, now’s I think about it.”

“I think that’s normal.”

“Mmm. D’you…” A pause.

Hermione poked at his chest. “What, lump?”

He cleared his throat. “D’you, um. Maybe want to marry me? Sometime?”

Hermione shot to her feet, half-laughing, and wheeled to stare at him in absolute shock.

Sirius blinked back, and ran a hand a bit sheepishly through his hair. “I, uh, hadn’t quite planned this. But I’ve got a—a nice ring. In the attic.”

Hermione lowered her hands from her mouth. “In the attic.”

“It isn’t cursed.”

“No? Well, that’s good to know.” Her eyes were sparkling with suppressed laughter. “Sirius Black, how high on medipotions _are_ you?”

He tilted his head, seemed to think about it, and cleared his throat. “Quite high.”

Hermione, grinning broadly now, climbed back onto the bed to plant a kiss squarely on his lips. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

He nodded solemnly, though his eyes twinkled. “I will.”

And then they looked at each other for a long moment, and Hermione began to giggle, and even Sirius started chuckling, and they sat and laughed together like a pair of lunatics. It was a surprised sort of laughter, as if neither of them could quite believe their daring. But it felt wonderful.

…

“So you’re telling me,” said George, rather hollowly, “that a ghost-Fred tried to kill you, and I _missed it?_ ” He was sitting in a place of honor at the head of the breakfast table at the Burrow, wearing his old striped pajamas and, while a bit pale still, consuming scrambled eggs at a reassuring rate. Mrs. Weasley had been fussing and tucking extra pillows in around him each time she bustled past, pausing sometimes just to lean in and kiss the top of his head with a look on her face that made Hermione want to forgive the older woman months of annoyance. She had almost lost another son. She was radiating an unspeakable relief.

“I mean,” said Ron, “that’s not _not_ what I’m saying. ‘Mione insists it wasn’t really him, though.”

“Yeah.” Ginny was scanning George’s expression. “Fred would never. And anyway, it was—incredibly creepy. I wish _I’d_ missed it.”

“I mean, sure. Of _course_ it wasn’t him,” scoffed George, waving his fork for emphasis. “That’s not the point. I just—” He heaved a sigh. “What was he wearing?” He was clearly trying to maintain his usual bluster, but a plaintive note was creeping through.

Hermione, for her part, was just very glad that George had been focused on his brother rather than Priscilla, once he’d recovered enough to hear the story. His response to the news about the medieval witch’s betrayal had been a haughty sort of surprise that was worthy, if anything, of Percy. Hermione suspected he was ashamed of how he’d been taken in. At any rate, he wasn’t showing signs of missing her.

“How ‘bout someone shows you in a pensieve?” rumbled Sirius, after a few moments.

George nodded eagerly, and Mrs. Weasley shot Sirius a grateful look.

Hermione squeezed his hand under the table. It was good to be building up goodwill with the Weasleys, if Sirius was planning to keep up what was becoming a routine of proposing again every few days. It had become standard flirtation stock at this point—pulling her onto the couch, he’d ask, “Should I ask your parents for permission?” just to cackle at her horrified reaction; “You could wear my mother’s veil,” he’d observe as she was getting undressed, and only waggle his eyebrows when she asked if _that_ was cursed; and her favorite: “We could elope on my motorcycle.”

Hermione was _not_ riding his motorcycle on her _WEDDING DAY_.

He seemed to find this reaction adorable, as opposed to discouraging.

Hermione didn’t exactly mind.

—

A couple of hours later, the group had dispersed from around Hermione’s pensieve, leaving her with Sirius in the library at Grimmauld Place. They’d been going through memories of each other’s like a kind of magical photo album, Hermione showing Sirius trips with her parents and adventures with Harry and Ron, Sirius showing her Hogwarts escapades and even how he’d broken out of Azkaban.

This had resulted in Hermione wrapping her arms around him and cooing, “You were so _thin_ , your poor _face_ ,” while he put up with her running her hands through his hair and mused aloud about whether it would be too creepy to revisit the Yule Ball and “that git” Viktor Krum. He had apparently been indoctrinated by Ron in this, if nothing else.

His eventual verdict was that yes, it was too creepy. He did not ever want to imagine a fourteen-year-old Hermione being kissed. As far as he was concerned, she’d just been consistently a tiny and innocent child until he came back to life. Hermione’s amused description of her second-year crush on Gilderoy Lockhart had made him look positively nauseated.

It took some persuading to get him to agree that they could revisit the first time they’d met. Hermione had to lean heavily on the fact that she’d helped knock Snape unconscious, and that he’d get to see Remus and Harry being reunited with him as well.

They emerged from the pensieve after a short while, and Sirius settled back on the couch to cross his arms broodily. “You were so _small_. You called me ‘ _Mr. Black_.’”

Hermione flopped down next to him, giggling. “Your face when I said that was hysterical.”

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“What?”

“I feel horrifically old now.”

She leaned in closer, draping one of her legs across his. “Don’t be silly. You look younger, if anything.” She poked gently at his cheek. “Less skeletal.”

This earned a look that was more flat still. “Thanks.” A pause. “I just…”

She knew the expression that was settling over his face. “ _What?_ ”

His mouth twisted. “What on _earth_ are you doing with me, you maniac? I feel like I’ve hoodwinked you.”

Hermione turned to look him properly in the face. “Sirius.” She shifted half-onto his lap, running her fingers affectionately over his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth. “Do you really think _you_ could fool _me_? And besides, I’m the one who’s supposed to worry about non-issues. Get back in your lane, silly. You shouldn’t need _me_ to say that you’re brave, and good, and smart, and,” she kissed at the edge of his reluctantly growing smile, “disgustingly handsome. That you make me feel safe, and I can talk to you about anything.” She tucked some of his hair back behind his ear. “And anyway. You asked what I was doing with you. I thought I was marrying you.” She smiled at his expression. “Wasn’t that—”

He cut her off with a kiss before she could get any further. But she figured she had said everything that she really needed to, at that.

…

_Epilogue_

It was the day of the first proper snow, and Sirius had announced a plan to build a snowman in Godric’s Hollow. It was, at this point, a bit of a yearly tradition. And so here they were, in the thick of the traditional snowball fight.

Hermione had bowed out early to sit with her parents on the bench. Sirius and Teddy were doing quite well without her. Teddy, all gangly six years of him, seemed to derive a particular satisfaction from managing to hit his honorary cousin James. James had the disadvantage of being so young as to be barely walking and encased in an immensely puffy winter coat behind Harry and Ginny’s snow wall, like a vibrantly blue and vaguely irritated marshmallow. Harry had had to set up a shield charm for the toddler. Ginny was a bit encumbered by her belly—seven months along, she had insisted that no son of hers would join his first snowball fight without her.

This did not give the other team all that much of an advantage, as Sirius was at least as encumbered, if not more so. Dorea was strapped to his chest in a papoose, squealing with glee at the snow-filled chaos and occasionally pointing a chubby, imperious finger in the direction that she wanted her father or Teddy to fire.

They obeyed. Dorea tended to get her way.

“She’s going to be a handful,” murmured Phoebe.

“Hm?”

Hermione’s mother smiled, and nodded at Sirius and the baby. “She’s got her father wrapped around her little finger already. You’ll have to watch out.”

Hermione’s smile widened. “Oh, completely. You know he lets her ride around on his back as a dog?”

Mark snorted, while Phoebe tried not to look too genuinely amused. It didn’t work very well; Sirius had long since won her over with flattery, and now she clung to the _appearance_ of qualms for the principle of it. That was Hermione’s theory, anyway.

Sirius was approaching the three of them not a moment later, bouncing a wailing Dorea and patting her back with a look of concern so vivid that Hermione almost laughed. “There was an unwelcome snow experience,” he said. “Mommy is apparently required.” He held out the baby, who reached for Hermione with a red, streaming face. He always held her with an almost cartoonish gentleness, as if she were made of spun glass. Hermione would have found it amusing if he weren’t so radiantly happy and so obviously worried that he would do something wrong.

Hermione took her daughter and patted the little back while Dorea hiccupped unhappily. “Snow is a cold and surprising thing.”

Phoebe couldn’t hold back her broad smile. “Oh, poor sweetheart.” She offered Dorea a finger to hold onto, and shot a warm sort of look up at Sirius as well. “Looking more like her papa every day, isn’t she? Look at those eyes.”

While that wasn’t exactly what Hermione was most focused on about her child, a statement like that from her mother was practically a sonnet of warmth. And, for once, directed beyond just the baby herself.

Dorea’s wide grey eyes were no longer welling with tears, and Hermione leaned in to kiss the dark, baby-soft curls. She could tell that Sirius was beaming. “Yes,” she agreed. “She is.”


End file.
